(    LIBRARY     1 


V 


UNIVERSITY  OF 

CAUFO  'NIA 

SAN  DIEGO 


cusSBstjfc 


7 


3(a5c}ilt  jJntkcr^^nns. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA,  SAN  DIEGO 

LA  JOLLA,  CALIFORNIA 


'  Fast  binrl,  fist  find; 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind. 


'^^^;^^^'''- 


AS    PERFORMED    BY 


THE 


MEECHANT  OF  VENICE 


AS   PRODUCED   AT   THE 


WINTER  GARDEN  THEATRE  OF  NEW  YORK, 

JANUARY,   1867, 

BY 

ED^v\^I]Sr    BOOTH. 


NEW  ADAPTATION  TO  THE   STAGE. 


NOTES,   ORIGINAL  AND  SELECTED,  AND  INTRODUCTORY  ARTICLES 


BY  HENRY  L.   HINTOJST. 


NEW    YORK: 
PRINTED     BY     C.     A.     ALYORD, 

15   VANDEWATER   STREET. 
1867. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  ycnr  1SG7, 

By    EDWIN    BOOTH, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  tlio    United  States  T"r  tho 

Southern  District  of  New  York. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFOR 
SANTA  BARBARA 


USTTRODUCTION. 


The  Merchant  of  Venice  was  the  first  of  those  greater  dramas  of  Shakespeare 
which  were  written  in  what  has  been  termed  the  middle  period  of  the  poet's  career. 
The  first  edition  of  the  play  (Ileyes's  Quarto)  appeared  in  1600;  the  second  edition 
(Roberts's  Quarto)  was  printed  later  in  the  same  year;  the  next  formed  a  part  of  the 
folio  of  1623. 

The  materials  from  which  Shakespeare  prepared  the  plot,  or,  more  properly 
speaking,  the  plots,  of  this  play,  seem  to  have  been  derived  from  various  sources. 
But  they  receive  all  their  interest  from  the  heightening  touch  of  the  poetic  artist. 
Mr.  White,  the  Shakespeare  commentator,  from  whose  text  the  present  acting  copy 
has  been  prepared,  remarks  on  this  subject  with  interest: — 

"  We  find,  then,  that  the  story  of  this  comedy,  even  to  its  episodic  part  and  its 
minutest  incidents,  had  been  told  again  and  again  long  before  Shakespeare  was  born, — 
that  even  certain  expressions  in  it  occur  in  the  works  of  preceding  authors — in  Gio- 
vanni Fiorentino's  version  of  the  story  of  the  Bond,  in  the  story  of  the  Caskets, 
as  told  in  the  Gesta  Romanorum,  in  the  Ballad  of  Gernutus,  and  in  Massuccio  di 
Salerno's  novel  about  the  girl  who  eloped  from  and  robbed  her  miserly  father, — and 
that  it  is  more  than  probable  that  even  the  combination  of  the  first  two  of  these  had 
been  made  before  The  Merchant  of  Venice  was  written.  What  then  remains  to 
Shakespeare  ?  and  what  is  there  to  show  that  he  is  not  a  plagiarist  ?  Every  thing 
that  makes  The  Merchant  of  Venice  what  it  is.  The  people  are  puppets,  and  the 
incidents  are  all  in  these  old  stories.  They  are  mere  bundles  of  barren  sticks  that 
the  poet's  touch  causes  to  bloom  like  Aaron's  rod :  they  are  heaps  of  drv  bones 
till  he  clothes  them  with  liuman  flesh  and  breathes  into  them  the  breath  of  life. 
Antonio,  grave,  pensive,  prudent  save  in  his  devotion  to  his  young  kinsman,  as  a 
Christian  hating  tlie  Jew,  as  a  royal  merchant  despising  the  usurer ;  Bassanio,  lavish 
yet  provident,  a  generous  gentleman  although  a  fortune-seeker,  wise,  although  a  gay 
gallant,  and  manly  though  dependent;  Gratiano,  who  unites  the  not  too  common 
virtues  of  thorough  good  nature  and  unselfishness  with  the  sometimes  not  imservice- 
able  fault  of  talking  for  talk's  sake;  Shylock,  crafty  and  cruel,  whose  revenge  is  as 
mean  as  it  is  fierce  and  furious,  whose  abuse  never  rises  to  invective,  or  his  anger 
into  wrath,  and  who  has  yet  some  dignity  of  port  as  the  avenger  of  a  nation's  wrongs, 
some  claim  upon  our  sympathy  as  a  father  outraged  by  his  only  child;  and  Portia, 


()  TNTRODFCTTON. 

matcliless  impersonation  of  that  rare  woman  who  is  gifted  even  more  in  intellect  than 
loveliness,  and  who  yet  stops  gracefully  short  of  the  offence  of  intellectuality  ; — these, 
not  to  notice  minor  characters  no  less  perfectly  organized  or  completely  developed 
after  their  kind, — those,  and  the  poetry  which  is  their  atmosphere,  and  through  which 
they  beam  upon  us,  all  radiant  in  its  golden  light,  are  Shakespeare's  only ;  and 
these  it  is,  and  not  the  incidents  of  old  and,  but  for  those,  forgotten  tales,  that 
make  The  Merchant  of  Venice  a  priceless  and  imperishable  dower  to  the  queenly 
city  that  sits  enthroned  upon  the  sea  ; — a  dower  of  romance  more  bewitching  than 
that  of  her  moonlit  waters  and  beauty-laden  balconies,  of  adornment  more  splendid 
than  that  of  her  pictured  palaces,  of  human  interest  more  enduring  than  that  of  her 
blood-stained  annals,  more  touching  even  than  the  sight  of  her  faded  grandeur." 

This  play  was  one  of  those   of  our  author's  productions  which   were  severely 
handled  by  the  "  improvers  "  of  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century.     Indeed, 
it  was  not  until  Macklin  restored  the  original  text,  in  1741,  tliat  the  presumptuous 
"improvements"  of  this  play  were  banished  from  the  stage.     Macklin's  adaptation  is  ■ 
the  one  familiar  to  the  theatre  of  to-day. 

Some  may  ask :  Why  make  an  adaptation  at  all  ?  why  not  give  the  play  as 
Shakespeare  composed  it?  Such  should  remember,  that  Shakespeare  wrote  in  a 
primitive  day  of  stage  machinery.  His  auditors  did  not  demand  completeness  in 
scenic  effects,  properties,  and  costumes,  as  do  those  of  our  time.  A  compliance 
with  these  modern  demands  makes  necessary  a  transposition  of  scenes.  Still,  some 
will  insist,  why  so  much  curtailment — such  as,  in  the  present  instance,  that  of  the 
whole  of  the  fifth  act?  The  only  defence  we  can  offer  in  this  and  other  cases  of 
less  moment,  which  do  not  necessarily  arise  from  the  introduction  of  elaborate 
machinery,  is,  that  our  modern  audiences  rule  it  thus — they  do  not  admit  with 
patience  scenes  which,  though  developing  delicate  delineations  of  character,  do  not 
help  on  very  notably  the  plot  of  the  piece.  Thus,  in  this  particular  play,  the  plot  is 
consummated  in  its  chief  features  with  the  fourth  act ;  and  the  audience,  therefore, 
immediately  jumps  to  its  feet,  without  waiting  to  hear  out  the  concluding  division 
of  the  play,  which  so  exquisitely  rounds  off  and  harmonizes  the  whole  production. 
AVhile  it  is  admitted  that  the  stage  should  lead  the  way,  and  educate  the  people  in 
matters  of  taste,  still,  this  is  true  only  to  the  extent  of  practicability.  The  stage  can 
only  keep  a  certain  distance  in  the  van  of  the  people  ;  it  must  give  heed  to  the  first 
law  of  nature — self-preservation. 

Of  the  performance  of  this  play  prior  to  the  restoration  of  the  monarchy,  there 
appear  to  be  no  detailed  accounts.  Richard  Burbagc,  one  of  the  company  of  which 
Shakespeare  was  a  member,  was  the  original  representative  of  Shylock.  He  is 
spoken  of  as  playing  the  part  in  a  red  beard  and  wig,  a  garb  adopted,  no  doubt,  to 
make  him  the  more  odious,  and  to  suit  the  popular  appetite  of  the  time. 

In  1663,  Charles  II.  granted  patents  for  two  theatres  in  London.  The  drama 
again  rose  and  flourished.  But  what  of  Shylock  ?  The  Jew's  character  had  been 
denuded  of  that  dignity  and  intensity  which  belongs  to  the  original  conception,  and 
he  had  been  forced  to  wear  the  garb  and  mien  of  a  low  jester  and  buftoon.  The  per- 
verted taste  of  the  last  half  of  the  seventeenth  and  the  first  half  of  the  eighteenth 
centuries  seemed  to  be  unequal  to  the  true  appreciation  of  this  grand  and  gloomy 
creation  of  the  poet.  Yet  we  hear  of  such  a  man  as  Rowe  saying :  "  I  cannot  but 
think  the  character  was  trarjkalhj  designed  by  the  author." 

Charles  Macklin — of  whose  Shylock  Pope  said:    "This  is  the  Jew  that  Shake- 


INTRODUOTIOX.  7 

speare  drew  " — was  tlio  first,  after  the  restoration,  to  play  Shylock  as  a  serious  part. 
Doran,  in  his  "Annals  of  the  English  Stage,"  thus  notices  this  reform  :  — 

"  There  was  a  wliisper  that  he  was  about  to  play  the  Jew  as  a  serious  character. 
His  comrades  laughed,  and  the  manager  was  nervous.  The  rehearsals  told  them 
nothing,  for  there  Macklin  did  little  more  than  walk  through  the  pai-t,  lest  the 
manager  should  prohibit  the  playing  of  the  piece,  if  the  nature  of  the  reform 
Macklin  was  about  to  introduce  should  make  him  fearful  of  consequences.  In  some 
such  dress  as  that  we  now  see  worn  by  Shylock,  Macklin,  on  the  night  of  the  15th 
of  February,  1741,  walked  down  tiie  stage,  and,  looking  through  the  eyelet-hole  in 
the  curtain,  saw  the  two  ever-formidable  front  rows  of  the  pit  occupied  by  the  most 
highly-dreaded  critics  of  the  period.  The  house  was  also  densely  crowded.  He 
turned  from  his  survey,  calm  and  content,  remarking :  '  Good !  I  shall  be  tried 
to-night,  by  a  special  jury  !' 

"There  was  little  applause,  to  Macklin's  disappointment,  on  his  entrance;  yet 
the  people  were  pleased  at  the  aspect  of  a  Jew  whom  Rembrandt  might  have  painted. 
The  opening  scene  was  spoken  in  familiar,  but  earnest  accents.  Not  a  hand  yet  gave 
token  of  approbation,  but  there  occasionally  reached  Macklin's  ears,  from  the  two 
solemn  rows  of  judge  and  jury  in  the  pit,  the  sounds  of  a  'Good !'  and  '  Very  good  !' 
'Very  well,  indeed!'  and  he  passed  otf,  more  gratified  by  this  than  by  the  slight 
general  applause  intended  for  encouragement. 

"As  the  play  proceeded,  so  did  his  triumph  grow.  In  the  scene  with  Tubal, 
which  Doggett,  in  Lansdownc's  version,  had  made  so  comic,  he  shook  the  hearts, 
and  not  the  sides,  of  the  audience.  There  was  deep  emotion  in  that  critical  pit. 
The  sympathies  of  the  house  went  all  for  Shylock ;  and  at  last,  a  storm  of  acclama- 
tion, a  very  hurricane  of  approval,  roared  pleasantly  over  Macklin.  So  far,  all  was 
well ;  but  the  trial-scene  had  yet  to  come. 

"  It  came ;  and  there  the  triumph  culminated.  The  actor  was  not  loud,  nor 
grotesque;  but  Shylock  w'as  natural,  calmly  confident,  and  so  terribly  malignant, 
that  when  he  whetted  his  knife,  'to  cut  the  forfeit  from  that  bankrupt  there,'  a  shud- 
der went  round  the  house,  and  the  profound  silence  following  told  Macklin  that  he 
held  bis  audience  by  the  heart-strings,  and  that  his  hearers  must  have  already 
acknowledged  the  truth  of  his  interpretation  of  Shakespeare's  Jew.  When  the  act- 
drop  fell,  then  the  pent-up  feelings  found  vent,  and  Old  Drury  shook  again  with  the 
tumult  of  applause." 

Since  the  time  of  Macklin,  there  have  been  many  representatives  of  Shylock,  of 
great  merit ;  but  we  have  not  space  to  enlarge  upon  the  peculiarities  and  the  great 
points  of  these  various  performances.  Edmund  Kean  was  the  next  to  introduce 
original  features  into  the  performance  of  Shylock,  With  this  part  he  first  entered 
upon  his  career  of  fame;  indeed,  we  may  almost  say  that  his  debut  in  this  role 
rescued  him  from  starvation.     The  circumstance  is  beautifully  told  by  Doran : — 

"  At  the  one  morning  rehearsal,  he  fluttered  his  fellow-actors,  and  scared  the 
manager,  by  his  independence  and  originality,  'Sir,  this  will  never  do!'  cried  Ray- 
mond, the  acting  manager.  '  It  is  quite  an  innovation  ;  it  cannot  b(5  permitted.' — '  Sir,' 
said  the  poor,  proud  man,  '  I  wish  it  to  be  so  !'  and  the  players  smiled,  and  Keau 
went  home — that  is,  to  his  lodgings,  in  Cecil  Street — on  that  snowy,  foggv  26th  of 
February,  1814,  calm,  hopeful,  and  hungry.     'To-day,'  said  he,  '  I  must  dine  P 

"  Having  accomplished  that  rare  feat,  he  went  forth  alone,  and  on  foot,  '  T 
wish,'  he  remarked,  '  I  was  going  to  be  shot !'     He  had  with  him  a  few  properties, 


8  INTRODUCTIOIT. 

which  he  was  bound  to  procure  for  himself,  tied  up  in  a  poor  handkerchief,  under 
his  arm.  His  wife  remained,  with  their  child,  at  home.  Kean  tramped  on  beneath 
the  falling  snow,  and  over  that  which  thickly  encumbered  the  ground — solid  here, 
there  in  slush ; — ^and,  by  and  by,  pale,  quiet,  but  fearless,  he  dressed,  in  a  room 
shared  by  two  or  three  others,  and  went  down  to  tlie  wing  by  which  he  was  to 
enter.  Hitlierto,  no  one  liad  spoken  to  him  save  Jack  Bannister,  who  said  a  cheering 
word ;  and  Oxberry,  who  had  tendered  to  him  a  glass,  and  wished  liim  good  fortune. 
'By  Jove!'  exclaimed  a  first-rater,  looking  at  him,  '  Shvlock  in  a  black  wig! 
Well !  I' 

"The  house  could  hold,  as  it  is  called,  £600;  there  was  not  more  than  a  sixth 
of  that  sum  in  front.  AVinter  without,  his  coim'ades  within ; — all  was  against  him. 
At  length  he  went  on,  with  Rae,  as  Bassanio,  in  ill-humor;  and  groups  of  actors  at 
the  wings,  to  witness  the  first  scene  of  a  new  candidate.  All  that  Edmund  Kean 
ever  did  was  gracefully  done ;  and  the  bow  which  he  made,  in  return  to  the  usual 
welcoming  applause,  was  eminently  graceful.  Dr.  Drury,  the  head  master  of 
Harrow,  who  took  great  interest  in  him,  looked  fixedly  at  him  as  he  came  forward. 
Shylock  leant  over  his  crutched  stick,  with  both  hands;  and,  looking  askance  at 
Bassanio,  said:  'Three  thousand  ducats?'  paused,  bethought  liimself,  and  then 
added  :  '  Well  ?'     '  He  is  safe,'  said  Dr.  Drury. 

"The  groups  of  actors  soon  after  dispersed  to  the  green-room.  As  they  reached 
it,  there  reached  there,  too,  an  echo  of  the  loud  applause  given  to  Shylock's  reply  to 
Bassanio's  assurance  that  he  may  take  the  bond:  '  I  will  be  assured  I  may  !'  Later 
came  the  sounds  of  the  increased  approbation  bestowed  on  the  delivery  of  the 
passage  ending  with:  'And  for  these  courtesies,  I'll  lend  you  thus  much  moneys.' 
The  act  came  to  an  end  gloriously;  and  the  players  in  the  green-room  looked  for  the 
coming  among  them  of  the  new  Shylock.  He  proudly  kept  aloof;  knew  he  was 
friendless,  but  felt  that  he  was,  in  himself,  sufficient. 

"  He  wandered  about  the  back  of  the  stage,  thinking,  perhaps,  of  the  mother  and 
child  at  home;  and  sure,  now,  of  having  at  least  made  a  step  toward  triumph.  He 
wanted  ho  congratulations;  and  he  walked  cheerfully  down  to  the  wing  where  the 
scene  was  about  to  take  place  between  him  and  his  daughter,  Jessica,  in  his  very 
calling  to  whom:  '  Why,  Jessica!  I  sav,'  there  was,  as  some  of  us  may  remember, 
from  an  after-night's  experience,  a  charm,  as  of  music.  The  whole  scene  was  played 
with  rare  merit ;  but  the  absolute  triumph  was  not  won  till  the  scene  (which  was 
marvellous  in  his  hands)  in  the  third  act,  between  Shylock,  Solanio,  and  Salarino, 
ending  with  the  dialogue  between  the  first  and  Tubal.  Shylock's  anguish  at  his 
daughter's  flight;  his  wrath  at  the  two  Christians,  who  make  sport  of  his  anguish; 
his  hatred  of  all  Christians,  generally,  and  of  Antonio  in  particular ;  and  then  his  alter- 
nations of  rage,  grief,  and  ecstasy,  as  Tubal  relates  the  losses  incurred  in  the  search 
for  that  naughty  Jessica,  her  extravagances,  and  then  the  ill-luck  that  had  fallen  upon 
Antonio.  In  all  this,  there  was  such  originality,  such  terrible  force,  such  assurance 
of  a  new  and  mighty  master,  that  the  house  burst  forth  into  a  very  whirlwind  of 
approbation.  '  What  now  ?'  was  the  cry  in  the  green-room.  The  answer  was,  that 
the  presence  and  the  power  of  the  genius  were  acknowledged  with  an  enthusiasm 
which  shook  the  very  roof." 

Dunlap,  in  his  "  Historv  of  the  American  Theatre,"  says :  "  On  the  5th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1752,  at  Williamsburg,  the  capital  of  Virginia,  the  first  play  performed  in 
America,  by   a  regular    company   of   comedians,  was    represented    to    a    delighted 


JXTUODrCTION'.  9 

audience.  The  piece  was  The  Mercluuit  of  Venice."  Subsequent  writers  have 
shown  this  statement  to  he  erroneous,*  and  that,  while  Tlie  Merchant  of  Venice  may 
have  tlien  for  the  first  time  been  presented  to  an  American  audience,  it  was  preceded 
b\'  Ricliard  III.  and  Othello,  at  New  York.  Richard  III.  was  given,  as  probably 
the  first  effort  of  a  company  of  Thespians  in  that  city,  on  the  .5th  of  March,  I7o0. 
It  will  interest  Knickerbockers  to  know  that  the  theatre  which  witnessed  this  early 
performance  was  situated,  as  shown  by  J.  X.  Ireland,  in  his  forthcomino-  work  on 
the  New  York  Stage  (with  the  advance  sheets  of  which  we  have  been  favored  by 
the  publisher,  T.  II.  Morrell),  "  on  the  east  side  of  Nassau  Street  (formerly  Kip 
Street),  between  John  Street  and  Maiden  Lane,  on  lots  now  known  by  the  numbers 
64  and  66  (186G)."  The  performers  on  this  occasion,  it  will  please  the  good  people 
of  the  City  of  Brotherly  Love  to  learn,  were  driven  from  Phihidelphia  as  a  set  of 
"  vagabonds." 

The  Merchant  of  Venice  was,  without  doubt,  introduced  to  the  New  York 
audience  in  the  fall  of  17.5.3,  by  the  same  company  which,  as  Dunlap  states,  opened 
in  Williamsburg  a  year  previous.  From  that  day  to  this,  the  play  has  stood  among 
the  first  in  favor  in  Xew  York  and  the  other  principal  cities  of  the  country. 

Of  all  the  actors  Avho  have  essayed  the  role  of  Shylock  on  our  American  stage, 
no  one  seems  to  have  left  so  lasting  an  impression  as  Junius  Brutus  Booth.  The 
following  critique  will  give  the  reader,  who  may  not  have  had  the  good  fortune  to 
see  and  hear  for  himself,  a  conception  of  the  "elder  Booth's"'  peculiar  rendition  of 
this  character  : — • 

"  Booth's  interpretation  of  the  part  of  Shylock  ditfered  greatly  from  that  which 
was  popular  on  the  stage  of  his  day.  The  superficial  features  of  the  Jew's  character 
are  patent  to  every  one — his  greed,  his  miserliness,  his  implacable  revengefulness ; — 
but,  in  the  refined  handling  of  this  great  artist,  these  traits  were  made  the  mere 
outworks  behind  which  was  seated  a  grand  reserved  force,  which  the  spectator 
found  it  difficult  to  analyze,  but  the  presence  of  which  was  none  the  less  powerfully 
felt.  The  Jew  stood  forth  as  the  representative  of  his  race  ;  he  Avrapped  up  in  himself 
the  dignity  of  the  patriarchs  of  his  people.  But  this  does  not  express  all ;  in  tlie 
person  of  Shylock,  as  given  by  Booth,  the  old  faith,  recognizing  justice  alone,  not 
mercy — 'an  eye  for  an  eye,  a  tooth  for  a  tooth' — was  brought  into  contrast  with 
that  which  superseded  it,  as  represented  in  the  person  of  Antonio  and  beautifully 
expounded  by  Portia.  Mercy  'is  twice  blessed ;  it  blesses  him  that  gives,  and  him 
that  takes,'  saith  Portia.     '  I  crave  the  law,'  saith  the  Jew. 

"Xo  man  was  more  catholic  in  his  sentiments  than  Booth.  He  read  the  Koran, 
and  often  attended  the  synagogues.  He  sympathized  with  the  Jews  as  an  oppressed 
and  reviled  race,  and  knew  how  to  assume  the  Hebraic  stand-point.  The  Jewish 
race  stood  to  him  for  an  idea — the  inexorableness  of  law  ;  and  the  conception  of  a 
people  selected  as  the  guardian  and  minister  of  this  law,  as  the  arm  of  fate,  affected 
his  imagination  profoundly.  Why  shall  not  Shylock  exact  his  usances?  Why 
shall  he  not  demand  the  penaltj'  and  forfeit  of  his  bond  ?  Are  they  not  all  Christian 
dogs — gentiles,  accursed  by  the  law?     In  the  person  of  Shylock,  Booth  embodied 

*  As  early  as  1T33  there  existed  a  "  play -house  "  in  New  York,  but  the  legitimate  drama  was  perfdrmed.  if  at 
all,  in  a  very  crude  manner,  the  play-house  being  used  ])riiieipally  for  puppet-shows  and  entertainments  of  like 
character.  It  is  more  tlian  probable  that  the  first  company  of  English  actors  which  crossed  the  Atlantic  first 
appeared  in  1T46.  in  .Jamaica.  West  Indies.  The  second  company,  as  mentioned  by  Dunlap.  crossed  in  1T52.  and 
appeared  in  Williamshur;:.  Virginia.  Tliese  two  companies  afterward  united,  forming  wliat  was  long  known  as 
the  American  Company. 


10  INTRODUCTION'. 

all  this  gloomy  grandeur  of  position,  this  merciless  absoluteness  of  will.  Yet 
Shylock's  more  special  personality — if  we  may  so  express  it — his  hatred  of  xVntonio, 
not  simply  '  for  he  is  a  Christian,'  but  because  he  has  hindered  him  in  his  usurious 
practices,  was  not  merged  and  lost  in  his  representative  character.  Booth  kept  the 
two  distinct,  skilfully  using  the  former  in  order  to  throw  out  in  darker  background 
the  shadowy  presence  of  the  latter.  Finely  in  keeping  with  this  rendering  of  the 
part,  is  the  exit  of  Shvlock  from  the  macliinery  of  the  piece  on  the  termination  of 
the  fourth  act.  The  lighter  and  more  graceful  work  of  the  play  goes  on ;  but 
Shylock  withdraws,  and  with  him  this  grand,  gloomy,  cruel  past,  which  he  represents, 
while  the  light-hearted,  forgiving,  and  forgiven  children  of  the  day  bring  all  their 
wishes  to  a  happy  consummation.'' 


COSTUME. 


The  costume  in  Venice  at  the  period  of  the  action  of  this  play  was,  in  many 
instances,  so  eccentric,  that,  were  it  strictly  adhered  to  in  representation,  "  it  is  to 
be  feared,"  as  White  remarks,  "that  the  splendor  and  faithfulness  of  the  scene  would 
be  forgotten  in  its  absurdity,  and  that  the  audience  would  explode  in  fits  of  uncon- 
trollable lauo'hter,  as  the  various  personages  came  upon  the  stage."  Fancy  "Antonio 
with  a  bonnet  like  an  inverted  porringer  shadowing  liis  melancholy  countenance," 
and  his  trunk-hose  puffed  out  with  bombast  to  an  enormous  size.  Fancy  the  gifted 
Portia  mounted  on  cioppini,  or,  as  they  have  been  called,  "  wooden  scaffolds  "— 
"things  made  of  wood,  and  covered  with  leather  of  sundry  colors,"  which  were 
sometimes  "half  a  yard  high,"  or,  as  another  account  says,  "as  high  as  a  man's 
leg."  Fancy  Portia,  thus  gigantically  proportioned,  led  in  by  "two  maids,  to  keep 
her  from  falling."  The  following  cut,  which  is  from  a  very  rare  book  on  costume, 
supposed  to  have  been  published   about  the  year  1600,  a  copy  of  which  is  in  the 


possession  of  Richard  Grant  White,  illustrates  this  strange  custom,  as  well  as  the 
general  peculiarities  of  the  female  dress  of  the  times,  and  shows  tlu;  impracticability 
of  putting  such  quaint  "make-ups"  upon  the  stage. 

For  the  female  dress  of  this  play,  therefore,  it  will  be  proper  to  select  from  the 
manv  beautiful  and  richly  ornate  Italian  costumes,  which  have  been  handed  down  to 


12 


COSTUME. 


us  by  painting  and  tlie  arts  nf  illumination,  sucli  as  may  l>ost  suit  tlie  temper  of  each 
character,  and  conduce  liy  tlieir  antiquity  to  the  imaginative  enjoyment  of  the  play. 
The  costume  given  in  the  following  illustration,  taken  from  Knight's  Pictorial 
Shakespeare,  is  well  suited  to  the  magnificent  tastes  of  tlie  time,  and  may  be 
adoptetl  with  propriety. 


The  male  attire  of  this  period,  or  such  of  it,  at  least,  as  distinguished  the  higher 
class,  may  be  considered  of  two  kinds :  that  one  which  was  used  on  festive  occasions, 
or  in  gayer  moods,  by  all  ages,  and  which  was  worn  at  all  times,  by  young  gallants 
Avho  had  not  I'cached  the  age  of  "  eighteen  or  twenty,"  and  that  one  which  pertained 
to  sedater  moods,  and  occasions  of  state.  Knight,  quoting  Vecellio,  has  given  an 
interesting  description  of  these  habits.  Young  lovers,  he  tells  us,  "wear,  generally, 
a  doublet  and  breeches  of  satin,  tabbv,  or  other  silk,  cut  or  slashed  in  the  form  of 
crosses  or  stars,  through  which  slaslies  is  seen  the  lining  of  colored  taffeta ;  gold 
buttons,  a  lace  ruff,  a  bonnet  of  rich  velvet,  or  silk,  with  an  ornamental  band,  a  silk 
cloak,  and  silk  stockings,  Spanish  morocco  shoes,  a  flower  in  one  hand,  and  their 
gloves  and  handkerchief  in  the  other.  This  habit  was  worn  b}'  many  of  tlie  nobility, 
as  well  of  Venice  as  of  other  Italian  cities."  Illustrations  in  Ferrario  represent  the 
high  bonnet  as  in  some  instances  substituted  by  the  more  reasonable  cap,  but  in  no 
instance  are  feathers  woi-n.     Full  but  not  very  long  beards  were  general. 

The  other  habit,  which,  as  we  have  said,  belonged  to  maturer  years  and  dignified 
occasions,  consisted  of  a  gown,  which  was  sometimes  worn  over  the  gay  attire  above 
described.  This  robe  received  special  modifications,  adapting  it  to  special  occasions 
and  particular  offices  ;  it  may  be  termed  the  common  exterior  dress  of  the  Venetians. 

The  robe  or  gown  of  the  Doge  was  of  silk  of  a  purple  dye,  or  sometimes  of  cloth 
of  gold ;  it  came  down  to  the  feet,  and  was  encircled  about  his  waist  with  a  richly 
embroidered  belt.  Over  this  was  thrown  a  mantle  of  cloth  of  silver,  so  long  as  to 
trail  to  some  extent  upon  the  ground.  These  garments  were  "  adorned  with  many 
curious  works,  made  in  colors  with  needlework."     Finally,  a  cape  of  ermine  encom- 


COSTUME.  13 

passed  his  shoulders  and  reached  to  the  elhows.  His  head  was  covered  with  a  thin 
coif,  over  which  he  wore  a  mitre,  correspondiiio-  in  color  witli  the  robe  ami  mantle, 
and  which  turned  up  behind,  in  the  form  of  a  horn.  His  feet  were  encased  in  slip- 
pers, or,  according  to  some  accounts,  sandals. 

The  chiefs  of  the  Council  of  Ten,  three  in  number,  wore  red  gowns  with  red 
stockino-s  and  slippers;  the  other  seven  were  attired  the  same,  only  the  color  was 
black.  These  gowns  hulig  loose,  and  extended  nearly  to  the  ground.  A  flap,  three 
or  four  inches  wide,  of  the  same  color  as  the  gowns,  or  sometimes  black,  was  worn 
on  the  red  gowns,  and  thrown  over  the  left  shoulder.  The  sleeves  were  large  and 
flowing,  reaching  almost  to  the  ground.  "All  these  gowned  men,"  says  Croyat,  "do 
wear  marvellous  little  black  caps  of  felt,  without  any  brims  at  all,  and  very  diminu- 
tive falling  bands,  uo  rufls  at  all,  which  are  so  shallow,  that  I  have  seen  many  of 
them  not  above  a  little  inch  deep." 

For  the  dress  of  the  Doctor  of  Laws,  Knight  gives  the  following  from  A^ecellio: 
"  The  upper  robe  was  of  black  damask  cloth,  velvet,  or  silk,  according  to  the  weather. 
The  under  one  of  black  silk,  with  a  silk  sash,  the  ends  of  which  hang  down  to  the 
middle  of  the  leg;  the  stockings  of  black  cloth  or  velvet,  the  cap  of  rich  velvet  or 
silk."  The  sleeves  of  the  gown  of  the  Doctor  of  Laws,  though  very  full,  were  tight 
at  the  wrist ;  and  a  flap,  as  in  the  case  of  the  Council,  thrown  over  the  left  shoulder. 
The  lawyer's  clerk  was  also  dressed  in  black,  the  gown  extending  about  to  the  ankles. 

Gondoliers  in  Ferrario  are  represented  in  tight-fitting  jackets  and  breeches. 
Pages  and  servants,  in  jackets  and  short  trunks ;  artisans,  in  short  gowns. 

But  how  are  Shylock  and  the  "pretty  Jessica"  to  be  attired? 

Touching  the  dress  of  Jewish  women,  Csesar  Vecellio,  in  his  "  Habiti  Antiche  e 
Moderni,"  1598,  says  that  they  wore  yellow  veils,  but  in  other  respects  ditfered  not 
from  Christian  women  of  the  same  rank.  They  were  distinguished,  however,  by 
being  "  highly  painted." 

The  Jewish  men  also  differed  in  nothing,  in  respect  of  dress,  from  Venetians 
of  the  same  walk,  except  that  they  were  compelled,  by  order  of  the  government,  to 
wear  a  yellow  bonnet.  The  story  is,  that  the  color  was  changed  from  red  to  yellow 
because  a  Jew  was  accidentallv  taken  for  a  cardinal.  Saint  Didier,  it  is  true,  in 
his  "Histoire  de  Venise,"  says  that  the  color  of  the  bonnet  was  "scarlet;"  but  the 
best  authority,  Vecellio,  reports  that  it  was  yellow.  "It  is  not  impossible,"  as 
Knight  remarks,  "that  the  'orange-tawny  bonnet'  might  have  been  worn  of  so  deep 
a  color,  by  some  of  the  Hebrew  pojjulation,  as  to  have  been  described  as  red  by  a 
careless  observer,  or  that  some  Venetian  Jews,  in  fiict,  did  venture  to  wear  red  caps 
or  bonnets  in  defiance  of  the  statutes,  and  thereby  misled  the  traveller  or  the  histo- 
rian." Shylock  speaks  of  his  "Jewish  gaberdine."  In  old  English  this  word  was 
applied  to  a  loose,  coarse,  and,  perhaps,  motley  garment,  worn  by  a  }»rescribed  class, 
or  the  poorer  soi't ;  and  in  Scottish  dialect  it  still  retains  this  usage.  Shakespeare, 
therefore,  caring  only  for  the  picturesque  appointments  of  his  play,  seems  to  have 
meant,  by  the  "Jewish  gabei-dine,"  an  article  of  dress  distinctive  of  the  Hebrew 
class;  nor  in  this  case  can  we  introduce  historical  accuracy  of  costume  without  mar- 
ring the  effect  of  the  piece. 

It  is  seen,  then,  in  some  instances  to  be  advantageous,  and  in  others  to  be  strictly 
necessary,  to  modify  the  costume  in  putting  this  great  work  of  our  author  upon  the 
stage.  The  Venice  of  Shakespeare's  day  has  been  usually  set  as  the  time  of  the 
action  of  this  plav,  and  the  above  detail  of  costume  is  of  that  date,  but  the  stories 


14  COSTUME. 

upon  whicli  the  play  is  founded  are  much  older.  White  says :  "  Any  Italian  cos- 
tume, rich,  beautiful,  and  sufficiently  antique  to  remove  the  action  out  of  the  range 
of  present  probabilities,  will  meet  the  dramatic  requirements  of  this  play;  but  the 
oranore-tawny  bonnet,  that  mark  of  an  outcast  race,  outifht  not  to  be  missed  from  the 
brow  of  Shylock." 

The  dress  worn  by  the  youth  of  the  latter  part  of  the  fourteenth  and  during  the 
fifteenth  centuries  contains  man)'  elegant  features,  and  may  be  adopted  in  part,  or  in 
all  its  details,  with  good  effect. 

Ferrario  thus  describes  the  toilet  of  young  nol^lemen  of  this  period:  "They 
brought  a  few  curls  oyer  the  forehead,  and  allowed  the  rest  of  the  hair  to  fall  in 
waves  upon  the  shoulders;  they  donned  a  coat,  which  reached  to  the  middle  of  the 
leg,  and  was  embroidered  with  various  flowers  in  silk  and  gold,  and  Avas  fastened  in 
front  with  gold  buttons  and  gatliered  about  the  waist  with  a  silk  belt,  from  which 
hung  a  sword  on  the  left  side  ;  this  coat  was  adorned  with  lace,  and  had  a  hood, 
wliich  hung  down  below  the  belt ;  the  sleeves  enveloped  the  arm  as  far  as  the  elbow, 
and  then  hung  open  in  more  or  less  long  pendants.  They  wore  hose  of  red  cloth, 
and  low,  laced  shoes." 

In  other  instances,  this  upper  garment,  according  to  the  same  author,  was  much 
shorter,  sometimes  not  covering  the  hips  ;  in  this  case  it  has  tiijht  sleeves  reaching 
to  the  wrist.  The  hoods  "were  very  small,  and  had  'beaks'  falling  back  almost  to 
the  ground."  "The  men  were  also  adorned  witlrnecklaces  or  bands  of  silver,  stud- 
ded with  pearls  or  red  coral,  and  matiy  young  men  went  bearded."'  Another  variety 
of  this  dress,  peculiar  perhaps  to  a  somewhat  more  youthful  age,  consists  of  a  striped 
hose  extending  up  the  whole  leg,  and  a  doublet  or  jacket,  "  open  at  the  breast  and 
tightened  about  the  loins  with  a  belt,  after  the  manner  of  the  ladies  of  our  time." 
Ferrario  pronounces  this  costume  "simple  and  beautifid."  Wahlen,  in  describing 
tlie  dress  of  a  young  Venetian  of  this  period,  adds  to  details  similar  to  those  above 
given,  that  of  a  cloak,  thrown  over  and  completely  enveloping  the  coat  or  doublet, 
and  reaching  as  low  as  the  breech.  This  cloak  is  lined  with  material  of  a  different 
color,  and  is  edged  with  gohl.  It  does  not  "  open  on  the  side,  but  is  looped  up  to 
the  right  shoulder."  With  this  was  worn,  for  "  coifFcui',"  a  linen  bonnet  of  some 
rich  color,  and  of  moderate  height. 

At  the  various  revivals  of  The  Merchant  of  Venice,  it  has  been  customary  to 
adopt,  in  the  male  attire,  what  is  called  the  "Venetian  Shape," — a  dress  similar  to 
that  described  in  tlie  early  part  of  this  article,  as  worn  by  "young  lovers."  But  the 
puffing  out  of  the  breeches  with  bombast, — a  marked  featui'c  of  this  costume, — has 
never,  and  perhaps  with  good  reason,  been  introduced.  The  dress  to  which  we  have 
given  the  preference,  the  distinguishing  mark  of  whicli  is  what  is  known  on  the  stao-e 
as  "the  hauberk,"  may  be  followed  with  more  historical  fidelitv,  and  is  undoubtedly 
the  more  picturesque  of  the  two. 


CAST   OF  THE    MERCHANT    OF  VENICE, 


AS     REVIVED    AT 


DRURY    LANE    THEATRE,    FEBRUARY    15,    1741, 

On  which  occasion  the  play  was  for  the   firsc   time   since   the  Restoration   pertbrmed   from   the   original 
text,  and   Shylock   rendered   as   a   serious   character. 

ANTONIO QUIN. 

BASSANIO MILWARD. 

GRATI ANO MILLS. 

SHYLOCK MACKLIN. 

LAUNCELOT CHAPMAN 

PRINCE  OF  MOROCCO CASHELL. 

PRINCE  OF  ARRAGON TURBUTT. 

LORENZO HAVARD. 

GOBBO JOHNSON. 

TUBAL TASWELL. 

PORTIA Mrs.   CLIVE. 

NERISSA Mrs.   PRITCHARD. 

JESSICA Mrs.    WOODMAN. 


CAST   OF  THE    MERCHANT    OF  VENICE, 

AS    PLAYED    FOR     THE    FIRST    TIME     IN     THIS     COUNTRY, 

WILLIAMSBURG,    VIRGINIA,    SEPTEMBER    5,    1752. 

SHYLOCK M  ALONE. 

BASSANIO RIGBY. 

ANTONIO CLARKSON. 

GRATIANO SINGLETON. 

SALANIO,    / HERBERT. 

DUKE,  "i 

SALARINO,    ,     WINNEL. 

GOBBO,  \ 

LAUNCELOT,    }  H ALLAM. 

TUBAL,  i 

BALTHAZAR Master   LEWIS   HALLAM. 

His  first  appearance  on  any  stage. 

PORTIA Mrs.    HALLAM. 

NERISSA M;ss  PALMER. 

JESSICA Miss  HALLAM. 

Her  first  appearance  on  any  stage. 


DRAMATIS  PERSONS 

or  the  Merchant  of  Venice,  as  represented  at  the  Winter  Garden  Theatre,  New  York,  18G7,  under 
the  immediate  supervision  of  Mr.  EDWIN  BOOTH. 


DiKECTOK,  "\V.   StUAET STAGE  MANAGER,  J.   G.    HANLEY SCKSIO   ArTIST,   C.  W.  WiTUAil. 


DUKE  OF  VENICE W.  DOXALDSON. 

PRINCE  OF  AERAGON,  Suitor  to  Portia JAMES  DUFF. 

ANTONIO,  the  Mercli.-iin  of  Venice M.  W.  LEFFINGWELL. 

BASSANIO,  his  Friend J.  NEWTON  GOTTHOLD. 

GRATIANO.  ^  ( BARTON  HILL. 

SALANIO.      (.Friends  to  Antonio  and  Bassanio -l W.  NELSON  DECKER. 

SALARINO,   )  (  HENRT  L.  HINTON. 

LORENZO,  in  love  with  Jessica MARSHALL  OLIVER. 

SHTLOCK,  .1  Jew EDWIN  BOOTH. 

TUBAL,  a  Jew,  his  Friend J.  DUELL. 

LAUNCELOT  GOBBO,  a  Clown W.  S.  ANDREWS. 

OLD  GOBBO,  Father  to Laixcelot W.  DA V1D6E. 

SALERIO,  a  Messenger CLAUDE  D.  BURROUGHS. 

LEONARDO.  Servant  to  Bassanio H.  HOGAN. 

BALTHAZAR,  Ser\ant  to  Portia J.  SUTTON. 

PORTIA,  a  rich  Heiress MARIE  METHUA  SCHELLEPv. 

NERISSA,  her  Waitinji-woinan M.  CUSHING. 

JESSICA,  Daughter  to  PiivLorK E.  JOHNSON. 

MagDlflcoes  of  Venice,  Officers  of  the  Cimrt  of  Justice.  Jailers,  Servants,  ami  other  Attendants. 

Scene  :  Partlj'  at  Venice,  partly  at  Belmont,  and  partly  at  Genoa. 


ILLUSTRATIONS. 


page 

Frontispiece Designed  by Hennery 1 

A  Gondola Designed  by MUs  Jemie,  Curtis.  17 

The  Ei alto,  Venice After  stretches  by Leutze 21 

CuuKCH  OF  San  Giovanni  e  Paolo,  Venice After  sketches  by Leutze   ....    26 

The  Place  of  St.  Mark,  A'enice After  slietches  by    Leutze 31 

A  Hall  in  Portia's  IIorsE.  Belmont    Designed  by Witliam 3.3 

Hall  of  the  Great  Senate,  Diical  Pal.ice,  Venice After  sketches  by Leutze    39 

Casket-Chest Designed  by Duell 41 

Engravkr,  D.  W.  C.  Ca.mmeter. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


ACT   I. 


Scene  I. — Venice. — A  Street. 


Enter  Antonio,  Salarino,  and  Salanio. 

Antonio.  In  sooth,  I  know  not  why  I  am  so  sad: 
It  wearies  me ;  you  say,  it  wearies  you : 
But  how  I  cauglit  it,  found  it,  or  came  by  it, 
What  stuff  'tis  made  of,  whereof  it  is  born, 
I  am  to  learn ; 

And  such  a  want-wit  sadness  makes  of  rae, 
That  I  have  much  ado  to  know  myself 
■    Salarino.  Your  mind  is  tossine;-  on  the  ocean, 
There,  where  your  argosies'  with  portly  sail, 
Like  signiors  and  rich  burghers  on  the  flood, - 
Or,  as  it  were,  the  pageants  of  the  sea, 
Do  overpeer  the  petty  traffickers. 
That  curt'sy  to  them,  do  them  reverence, 
As  they  fly  by  them  with  their  woven  wings. 

Salanio.  Beheve  me,  sir,  had  I  such  venture 
forth. 
The  better  part  of  my  affections  would 
Be  with  my  hopes  abroad.     I  should  be  still 
Plucking  the  grass  to  know  wliere  sits  the  wind,^ 
Peering  in  maps  for  ports,  and  piers,  and  roads; 
And  every  object  that  might  make  me  fear 
Misfortune  to  my  ventures,  out  of  doubt. 
Would  make  me  sad. 

Salar.  My  wind,  coohng  my  broth. 

Would  blow  me  to  an  ague,  when  I  thought 
What  harm  a  wind  too  great  might  do  at  sea 
I  should  not  see  the  sandy  hour-glass  run. 


But  I  should  think  of  sliallows  and  of  flats. 
And  see  my  wealthy  Andrew*  dock'd  iu  sand, 
Vailing*  her  high  top  lower  than  her  ribs. 
To  kiss  her  burial.     Should  I  go  to  church. 
And  see  the  holy  edifice  of  stone. 
And  not  bethink  me  straight  of  dangerous  rocks, 
Which,  touching  but  my  gentle  vessel's  side. 
Would  scatter  all  her  spices  on  the  stream. 
Enrobe  the  roaring  waters  with  my  silks, 
And, — in  a  word,  but  even  now  worth  this. 
And  now  worth  nothing?      Shall  I   have  the 

thought 
To  think  on  this,  and  shall  I  lack  the  thoughit, 
That  such  a  thing  bechanc'd  would  make  me 

sad? 
But,  tell  not  me:  I  know,  Antonio 
Is  sad  to  think  upon  his  merchandize. 

Ant.  Believe  me,  no.    I  thank  my  fortune  for  it, 
My  ventures  are  not  in  one  bottom  trusted, 
Nor  to  one  place ;   nor  is  my  whole  estate 
Upon  the  fortune  of  tiiis  present  year: 
Therefore,  my  merchandize  makes  me  not  sad. 
Salar.  Why,  then  you  are  in  love. 
Ant.  Fye,  fye! 

Salar.  Xot  in  love  neither  ?     Then  let's  say, 

you  are  sad. 
Because  you  are  not  merry;  and  'twere  as  easy 
For  you  to  laugh,  and  leap,  and  say,  you  are 

merry. 
Because  you  are  net  sad.     Now,  by  two-headed 

Janus,'' 


1  ArgoKies. — Argosies  are  large  ships,  either  for  merchandise  or  for  war.  The  name  was  probalil y  derived  from 
the  classical  ship  Argo,  which  carried  Jason  and  the  Argonauts  in  quest  of  the  golden  fleece. — Hudson. 

^  Like  siyniors  and  rich  burghers  on  the  flood. — The  "signiors  and  rich  burghers  on  the  flood,"  are  the  Vene- 
tians, who  may  well  be  said  to  live  on  the  sea. — Douce. 

3  Plucking  the  grass  to  know  where  sits  the  wind. — By  holding  up  the  grass,  or  any  other  light  body  that  will 
bend  by  a  gentle  blast,  the  direction  of  the  wind  is  found. — Johnsos. 

■"  Andrew. — This  name  was  probably  a  common  one  for  ships,  in  compliment  to  Andrea  Doria,  the  great 
Genoese  Admiral. — Whitk. 

*  Vailing. — To  rail  is  to  lower:  from  the  French  avaler. 

°  Two-headed  Jan  us. — By  two-headed  Janus,  is  meant  those  ancient  bifrontine  he.ads  which  generally  represent 
a  younj;  and  smiling  face,  together  with  an  old  and  wrinkled  one,  being  of  Pan  and  Bacchus,  of  Saturn  and  Apollo, 
<fec. — Warisurton". 


18 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


Nature  hath  fram'd  strauge  fellows  in  her  time  : 

Some  that  will  evermore  peep  through  their  eyes, 

And  laugh,  like  parrots,  at  a  bag-piper; 

And  other  of  such  vinegar  aspect, 

Thac   they'll  not   show  their  teeth  in  way  of 

smile. 
Though  Xestor  swear  the  jest  be  laughable. 

Sedan.  Here  comes  Bassanio,  your  most  noble 
kinsman, 
Gratiano,  and  Lorenzo.     Fare  ye  well: 
We  leave  you  now  with  better  company. 

Salar.  I  would  have  stay'd  till  I  had  made 
you  merry, 
If  worthier  friends  had  not  prevented  me. 

Ant.  Your  wortli  is  very  dear  in  my  regard. 
I  take  it.  your  own  business  calls  on  you, 
And  you  embrace  th'  occasion  to  depart. 

Enter  Bassaxio,  Lorexzo,  and  Gratiaxo. 

Falar.  Good  morrow,  my  good  lords. 

Bassanio.  Good  signiors  both,  when  shall  we 
laugh?     Say,  when? 
You  grow  exceeding  strange :  must  it  be  so  ? 

Salar.  We'll  make  our  leisures  to  attend  on 
yours.      [E:i:€unt  Salarixo  and  Sai^vxio. 

Lorenzo.  My  lord   Bassanio,  since   you   have 
found  Antonio, 
We  two  will  leave  you ;  but  at  dinner-time, 
I  pray  you,  have  in  mind  where  we  must  meet. 

Bass.  I  will  not  fill  j-ou. 

Qratiano.  Y'ou  look  not  well,  Signior  Antonio ; 
You  have  too  much  respect  upon  the  world: 
They  lose  it,  that  do  buy  it  with  much  care. 
Believe  me,  you  are  marvellously  chang'd. 

Ant.  I  hold  the  world  but  as  the  world,  Gra- 
tiano; 
A  stage,  where  every  man  must  play  a  part. 
And  mine  a  sad  one. 

Gra.  Let  me  play  the  fool: 

With  mirth  and  laughter  let  old  wrinkles  come, 
And  let  my  liver  rather  heat  with  wine, 
Tlian  my  heart  cool  wiih  mortifying  groans. 
Why  should  a  man,  whose  blood  is  warm  within, 
Sit  like  his  grandsirc  cut  in  alabaster? 
Sleep  when  he  wakes,  and  creep  into  the  jaundice 
By  being  peevish?     I  tell  thee  what,  Antonio, — 
I  love  thee,  and  it  is  my  love  that  speaks; — 
There  are  a  sort  of  men,  whose  visages 
Do  cream  and  mantle,  like  a  standing  pond, 
And  do  a  wilful  stillness  entertain. 
With  purpose  to  be  dress'd  in  an  opinion 
Of  wisdom,  gravity,  profound  conceit; 
As  who  should  say,  '  I  am  Sir  Oracle, 
And,  when  I  oj^e  my  lips,  let  no  dog  bark ! ' 
0!  my  Antonio,  I  do  know  of  these. 
That  tlierefore  only  are  reputed  wise, 
For  saying  nothing;  when,  I  am  very  sure, 


If  they  should  speak,  would  almost  damn  those 

ears, 
Which,  hearing  them,  would  call  their  brothers 

fools.' 
I'll  tell  thee  more  of  this  another  time: 
But  fish  not,  with  this  melancholy  bait. 
For  this  fool-gudgeon, '■'  this  opinion. — 
Come,  good  Lorenzo. — Fare  ye  well,  a  while: 
I'll  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner.'' 

Lor.  Well,  we  will  leave  you,  then,  till  dinner- 
time. 
I  must  be  one  of  these  same  dumb  wise  men, 
For  Gratiano  never  lets  me  speak. 

Gra.  Well,  keep  me  company  but  two  years 
more, 
Thou  shalt  not  know  the  sound  of  thine  own 
tongue. 

Ant.  Farewell:  I'll  grow  a  talk?r  for  this  gear.* 

Gra.  Thanks,  i'faiih ;  for  silence  is  only  com- 
mendable 
In  a  neat's  tongue  dri'd,  and  a  maid  not  vendi- 
ble.        [Exeunt  Gratiaxo  OMd  Lorenzo. 

Ant.  Is  that  anything  now? 

Bass.  Gratiano  speaks  an  infinite  deal  of 
nothing,  more  than  any  man  in  all  Venice.  His 
reasons  are  as  two  grains  of  wheat  hid  in  two 
bushels  of  chaff:  you  shall  seek  all  day  ere  you 
find  them ;  and  when  you  have  them,  they  nre 
not  worth  the  search. 

Ant.  Well;  tell  me  now,  what  kdy  is  the  same 
To  whom  j-ou  swore  a  secret  pilgrimage. 
That  you  to-day  promis'd  to  tell  me  of? 

Bass.  'Tis  not  imknown  to  you,  Antonio, 
How  much  I  have  disabled  mine  estate. 
By  something  showing  a  more  swelling  port' 
Than  my  faint  means  would  grant  continuance: 
Nor  do  I  now  make  moan  to  be  abridg'd 
From  such  a  noble  rate  ;  but  my  chief  care 
Is  to  come  fairly  off  from  the  great  debts, 
Wherein  mj^  time,  something  too  prodigal. 
Hath  left  me  gaged.     To  you,  Antonio, 
I  owe  the  most,  in  money,  and  in  love ; 
And  from  3'our  love  I  have  a  warranty 
To  unburthen  all  my  plots  and  purposes, 
How  to  get  clear  of  all  the  debts  I  owe. 

Ant.  I    pray    you,    good    Bassanio,    let    mo 
know  it; 
And  if  it  stand,  as  you  yourself  still  do, 
Within  the  eye  of  honour,  be  assur'd, 
My  purse,  my  person,  my  extremest  means, 
Lie  all  unlock'd  to  your  occasions. 

Bass.  In  mv  school-days,  when  I  had  lost  one 
shaft,  ' 
I  shot  his  fellow  of  the  self-same  flight 
The  self-same  way,  with  more  advised  watch, 
To  find  the  other  forth ;    and   by  adventuring 

both, 
I  oft  found  both.     I  urge  this  childhood  proof, 


'  Damn  those  ears,  *  *  *  brothers  fooh. — Some  people  are  thnnght  wise  while  they  keep  silence,  who,  when 
they  open  their  mouths,  are  such  stupid  praters  that  the  hearers  can  not  help  calling  them  fools,  and  so  incur  the 
judgment  denounced  in  the  gospel  ag.ainst  him  who  "  says  to  his  brother,  Thou  fool." — Theobald. 

^  Fool-gudgeon. — Gu</geon  was  the  name  of  a  small  fish  very  easily  caught. — Hudson. 

*  TU  end  my  exhortation  after  dinner. — The  humor  of  this  consists  in  its  being  an  allusion  to  the  practice  of 
the  Puritin  preachers  of  those  times ;  who,  being  generally  very  long  .md  tedious,  were  often  forced  to  put  off  that 
part  of  their  sermon  called  the  exhortation  till  after  dinner. — Wabbueton. 

*  For  thi.i  gear — for  this  matter. 

*  Port — appearance. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


19 


Because  what  follows  is  pure  innocence. 
I  owe  you  much,  and,  like  a  wilful  youth, 
That  which  I  owe  is  lost ;  but  if  you  please 
To  shoot  another  arrow  that  self  way 
Which  you  did  slioot  the  first,  I  do  not  doubt, — 
As  I  will  watch  the  aim, — or  to  find  both, 
Or  bring  your  latter  hazard  back  again, 
And  thankfully  rest  debtor  for  the  first. 

Ant.  You  know  me  well,  and  herein  spend 
but  time, 
To  wind  about  my  love  with  circumstance; 
And,  out  of  doubt,  you  do  me  now  more  wrong, 
In  making  question  of  my  uttermost. 
Than  if  you  had  made  waste  of  all  I  have: 
Then,  do  but  say  to  me  what  I  should  do. 
That  in  your  knowledge  may  by  me  be  done. 
And  I  am  prest'  unto  it :  therefore,  speak. 

Bass.  In  Belmont  is  a  lady  riclily  left; 
And  she  is  fair,  and,  fairer  than  that  word, 
Of  wondrous  virtues:  sometimes^  from  her  eyes 
I  did  receive  fair  speechless  messages. 
Her  name  is  Portia ;  nothing  undervalued 
To  Cato's  daughter,  Brutus'  Portia. 
Nor  is  the  wide  world  ignorant  of  her  worth 
For  the  four  winds  blow  in  from  every  coast 
Renowned  suitors ;  and  her  sunny  locks 
Hang  on  her  temples  like  a  golden  fleece ; 
Which  makes  her  seat  of  Belmont  Colchos'  strand. 
And  many  Jasons  come  in  quest  of  her. 
0,  my  Antonio!  had  I  but  the  means 
To  hold  a  rival  place  with  one  of  them, 
I  have  a  mind  presages  me  such  thrift. 
That  I  should  questionless  be  fortunate. 

A'lt.  Thou  know'st  that  all  my  fortunes  are  at 
sea; 
Neither  have  I  money,  nor  commodity 
To  raise  a  present  sum  :  therefore,  go  forth 
Try  what  my  credit  can  in  Venice  do; 
Tiiat  shall  be  rack'd,  even  to  the  uttermost. 
To  furnish  thee  to  Belmont,  to  fair  Portia. 
Go,  presently  inquire,  and  so  will  I, 
Where  money  is;   and  I  no  question  make, 
To  have  it  of  my  trust,  or  for  my  sake.     [Exeunt. 

Scene  "II. — Belmont. — An.  Apartment  in    Por- 
tia's House. 

Enter  Portia  and  Nerissa. 

Portia.  By  my  troth,  Nerissa,  my  little  body 
is  aweary  of  tiiis  great  world. 

Nvissa.  You  would  be,  sweet  Madam,  if  your 
miseries  were  in  the  same  abundance  as  your 
good  fortunes  are.  And,  yet,  for  aught  I  see, 
they  are  as  sick,  that  surfeit  with  too  much,  as 
they  that  starve  with  nothing:  it  is  no  small 
happiness,  therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean  : 
superfluity  comes  sooner  by  white  hairs,'  but 
competency  lives  longer. 

Par.  Good  sentences,  and  well  pronounc'd 


Ner.  They  would  be  better  if  well  followed. 

Par.  If  to  do  were  as  easy  as  to  know  what 
were  good  to  do,  chapels  had  been  churches, 
and  poor  men's  cottages  princes'  jjalaces.  It  is 
a  good  divine  that  follows  his  own  instructions : 
I  can  easier  teach  twenty  what  were  good  to  be 
done,  than  be  one  of  the  twenty  to  follow  mine 
own  teaching.  The  brain  may  devise  laws  for 
the  blood-  but  a  hot  temper  leaps  o'er  a  cold 
decree:  such  a  hare  is  madness,  the  youth,  to 
skip  o'er  the  meshes  of  good  counsel,  the  crip- 
ple. But  this  reasoning  is  not  in  the  fashion  to 
choose  me  a  husband. — 0  me  1  the  word  choose! 
I  may  neither  choose  whom  I  would,  nor  refuse 
whom  I  dislike:  so  is  the  will  of  a  living  daugh- 
ter curb'd  by  the  will  of  a  dead  father. — Is  it 
not  hard,  Nerissa,  that  I  cannot  choose  one,  nor 
refuse  none? 

Ner.  Your  father  was  ever  virtuous,  and  holy 
men  at  their  death  have  good  inspirations ; 
therefore,  the  lottery,  that  he  hath  devised  in 
these  three  chests,  of  gold,  silver,  and  lead, 
(whereof  who  chooses  his  meaning,  chooses  you,) 
will,  no  doubt,  never  be  chosen  by  any  rightly, 
but  one  who  you  shall  rightly  love.  But  what 
warmth  is  there  in  your  affection  towards  any 
of  these  princely  suitors  that  are  already  come  ? 

Por.  I  prsy  thee  over-name  tliem,  and  as  thou 
namest  them,  I  will  describe  them;  and,  accord- 
ing to  my  description,  level  at  my  affection. 

Ver.  First,  there  is  the  Neapolitan  Prince. 

Por.  Ay,  that's  a  colt,  indeed,*  for  he  doth 
nothing  but  talk  of  his  horse;  and  ho  makes  it  a 
great  appropriation  to  his  own  good  parts  that 
he  can  .shoe  him  himself  I  am  much  afraid  my 
lady  his  mother  play'd  false  with  a  smith. 

Ner.  Then,  is  there  the  County  Palatine. 

Por.  He  doth  nothing  but  frown,  as  who 
should  say,  '  An  you  will  not  have  me,  choose.' 
He  hears  merry  tales,  and  smiles  not :  I  fear 
he  will  prove  the  weeping  philosopher*  when 
he  grows  old,  being  so  full  of  unmannerly  sad- 
ness in  his  youth.  I  had  rather  be  married  to 
a  death's  head  with  a  bone  in  his  mouth  than 
to  either  of  these.    God  defend  me  from  these  two! 

Ner.  How  say  you  -by  the  French  lord,  Mon- 
sieur Le  Bon  ? 

Por.  God  made  him,  and  therefore  let  him 
pass  for  a  man.  In  truth,  I  know  it  is  a  sin  to 
be  a  mocker;  but,  he!  why,  he  hath  a  horse 
better  than  the  Neapolitan's  ;  a  better  bad  habit 
of  frowning  than  the  Count  Palatine:  he  is 
every  man  in  no  man ;  if  a  throstle  sing,  he  falls 
straight  acap'ring:  he  will  fence  with  his  own 
shadow.  If  I  should  marry  him,  I  should  marry 
twenty  husbands.  If  he  would  despise  me,  I 
would  forgive  him:  for  if  he  love  me  to  madness, 
I  shall  never  requite  him. 

Ner.  What  say  you,  tiien,  to  Faulconbridge, 
the  young  Baron,  of  England  ? 


'  Prest — ready.  -  Sometimes — formerly. 

3  Superfluity/  comes  sooner  hy  tchite  hairs — superfluity  snoner  acquires  wliite  hairs;  becomes  ol(].     We  still 
say,  How  did  he  come  hy  it. — Malone. 

*  A  colt  indeed  — This  term  is  apiilied  to  the  Prince  in  question,  on  account  of  the  \\vA  repute  of  the  Neapolitan 
horsemanship. — White. 

*  Weeping  philosopiUer. — Iler.aclitus,  a  pliilosopher  of  Athens,  so  called  ;  who,  whenever  he  went  abroad,  wnpt 
at  the  miseries  of  the  world. — Gbev. 


20 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


For.  Ton  know  I  say  nothing  to  him,  for  he 
understands  not  me,  nor  I  him :  he  hatli  neither 
Latin,  French,  nor  Itahan;  and  you  will  come 
into  the  court  and  swear  tliat  I  have  a  poor 
penny-worth  in  the  Knirlish.  He  is  a  proper' 
man's  picture;  but,  alas!  who  can  converse 
with  a  dumb  show?  How  oddly  he  is  suited!  I 
think  he  bought  liis  doublet  in  Italy,  his  round 
hose  in  France,  his  bonnet  in  Germany,  and  liis 
behaviour  every  where. 

Nf-T.  "What  think  you  of  the  Scottish  lord,  his 
neighbour  ? 

For.  That  he  hath  a  neighbourly  charity  in 
him ;  for  he  borrowed  a  box  of  the  ear  of  the 
Englishman,  and  swore  he  would  pay  him  again 
when  he  was  able:  I  think'^  the  Frenchman  be- 
came his  surety,  and  seal'd  under  for  another. 

Ker.  How  like  you  the  j'oung  German,  the 
Duke  of  Saxony's  nephew  ? 

For.  Very  vilely  in  the  morning,  when  he  is 
sober,  and  most  vilely  in  the  afternoon,  when  he 
is  drunk:  when  he  is  best,  he  is  little  worse 
than  a  man;  and  when  he  is  worst,  he  is  little 
better  than  a,  beast.  An  the  worst  fall  that 
ever  fell,  I  hope  I  shall  make  shift  to  go  with- 
out him. 

Ntr.  If  he  should  offer  to  choose,  and  choose 
the  right  cnsket.  you  should  refuse  to  perform 
your  father's  will,  if  yon  should  refuse  to  accept 
him. 

For.  Therefore,  for  fear  of  the  worst.  I  pray 
thee  set  a  deep  glass  of  Rhenish  wine  on  the 
contrary  casket;  for,  if  the  Devil  be  within,  and 
that  temptation  without,  I  know  he  will  choose 
it.  I  will  do  any  thing,  Nerissa,  ere  I  will  be 
married  to  a  spunge. 

Nur.  You  need  not  fear,  lady,  the  having  any 
of  these  lords :  they  have  acquainted  me  with 
their  determinations;  which  is  indeed,  to  return 
to  their  home,  and  to  trouble  you  witli  no  more 
s  lit,  unless  you  may  be  won  by  someotlier  sort^ 
th;in  your  father's  imposition  depending  on  the 
caskets. 

For.  If  I  live  to  be  as  old  as  Sibylla,  I  will 
die  as  chaste  as  Diana,  unless  I  be  obtained  by 
the  manner  of  my  father's  wiU.  I  am  glad  this 
parcel  of  wooers  are  so  reasonable;  for  there  is 
not  one  among  them  but  I  dote  on  his  very  ab- 
sence;  and  I  wish  them  a  fair  departure. 

'Ker.  Do  you  not  remember,  ladj',  in  your 
father's  time,  a  Venetian,  a  scholar  and  a  sol- 
dier, that  came  hither  in  company  of  the  Mar- 
quis of  Montferrat  ? 

For.  Yes,  yes ;  it  was  Bassanio :  as  I  think, 
so  was  he  called. 

JVer.  True.  Madam:  he,  of  all  the  men  that 
ever  my  foolish  eyes  look'd  upon,  was  the  best 
deserving  a  fair  lady. 


For.  I  remember  him  well,  and  I  remember 
him  worthy  of  thy  praise. 

Entzr  Balthazah. 

BaMhazar.  The  four  strangers  seek  you.  Madam, 
to  take  their  leave ;  and  there  is  a  forerunner 
come  from  a  fifth,  the  Prince  of  Morocco,  who 
brings  word  the  Prince,  his  master,  will  be  here 
to-night. 

Fcr.  If  I  could  bid  the  fifth  welcome  with  so 
good  lieart  as  I  can  bid  the  other  four  farewell, 
I  should  be  glad  of  his  approach:  if  lie  have 
the  condition*  of  a  saint,  and  the  complexion  of 
a  devil,  I  had  rather  lie  should  shrive  me. than 
wive  me. 

Come,  Xerissa. — Sirrah,  go  before. 
Whiles  we  shut  the  gate  upon  one  wooer,  an- 
other knocks  at  the  door.  \_Exeunt. 

Scene  III. — Venice. — A  Street. 

Enter  Bassanio  and  S:iylock. 

Shylock.  Three  thousand  ducats, — well. 

Bass.  Ay,  sir.  for  three  montlis. 

Shy.  For  three  months, — well. 

Bass.  For  the  which,  as  I  told  you,  Antonio 
shall  be  bound. 

Shy.  Antonio  shall  become  bound, — well. 

Bass.  May  you  stead  me  ?  Will  you  pleasure 
me?    Shall  I  know  your  answer? 

Shy.  Three  thousand  ducats  for  three  months, 
and  .\ntonio  bound. 

Ba.S9.  Your  answer  to  that. 

Shy.  Antonio  is  a  good  man. 

Bass.  Have  you  heard  any  imputation  to  the 
contrary  ? 

Shy.  Ho!  no,  no,  no,  no: — my  meaning,  in 
saying  he  is  a  good  man,  is  to  have  you  under- 
stand me,  that  he  is  sufficient;  yet  his  means 
are  in  supposition.  He  hath  an  argosy  bound 
to  Tripolis,  another  to  the  Indies:  I  understand 
moreover  upon  the  Rialto,  ho  hath  a  third  at 
Mexico,  a  fourth  for  England,  and  other  ven- 
tures he  hath  squandered^  abroad;  but  ships 
are  but  boards,  sailors  but  men :  there  be  land- 
rats  and  water-rats,  land-thieves  and  water- 
thieves, — I  mean,  pirates:  and  then,  there  is  the 
peril  of  waters,  winds,  and  rocks.  The  man 
is.  notwithstanding,  sufficient :  three  thousand 
ducats. — I  think  I  may  take  his  bond. 

Bass.  Be  assured  you  may. 

Shy.  I  will  be  assured  I  may ;  and  that  I  may 
be  assured,  I  will  bethink  me.  May  I  speak 
vv^ith  Antonio? 

Bass.  If  it  please  you  to  dine  with  us. 

Shy.  Yes,  to  smell  pork ;  to  eat  of  the  habi- 
tation which  your  prophet,  the  Nazarite,  con- 


^  Pro/)*;"— handsome. 

-  /  think,  &c. — Alluding  to  the  constant  assist.inee.  or  mther  constant  promises  of  assistance  that  the  French 
gave  the  Scots  in  their  quanels  with  the  English.     This  alliance  is  here  humorousl}'  satirized. — WAnnrr.Tox. 

^  Sort — lot  *  Condition — disposition. 

5  Sjunndered.— In  a  letter  published  \>y  Mr.  AValdron,  in  Woodlairs  'Theatrical  Kepertory.'  1501.  it  is  stated 
that  "Macklin,  mistakenly,  spoke  the  word  with  a  tone  of  reproliation,  implying  that  .Vntonio  had.  as  we  say  of 
jirodigals.  unthriftily  squandered  his  wealth."'  The  meaning  is  simply  scattered  ;  of  which  Mr.  Waldron  gives  an 
example  from  Ilowelfs 'Letters:"  '"Tlie  Jews,  once  an  elect  people,  but  now  grown  contemptible,  and  strangely 
sijuander''d  up  and  down  the  world." — Kkigut. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


21 


jured  tlio  Devil  into.  I  will  buy  with  you,  sell 
witli  you,  talk  with  you,  walk  with  you,  and  so 
following;  but  I  will  not  eat  with  you,  drink 
with  you,  nor  pray  with  you.  What  news  on 
the  Rialto?' — AVho  is  he  comes  here  ? 

Bass.  This  is  Signior  Antonio. 

[Exit  Bassanio. 

Shij.  TTow  like  a  fawning  publican  he  looks  I 
I  hate  him  for  he  is  a  Christian;" 
But  more  for  that,  in  low  simplicity. 
He  lends  out  money  gratis,  and  brings  down 
The  rate  of  usance'"'  here  with  us  in  Venice. 
If  I  can  catch  him  once  upon  the  hip,'' 
I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  1  bear  him. 
He  hates  our  sacred  nation ;   and  he  rails. 
Even  there  where  merchants  most  do  congregate. 
On  me,  my  bargains,  and  my  well-won  thrift, 
Which  he  calls  interest.     Cursed  be  my  tribe, 
If  I  forgive  him  ! 

Enter  Bassanio  and  Antoxio. 

Bass.  [After  a  pause. 1  Shylock,  do  you  hear? 
SJuj.  I  am  debating  of  my  present  store. 
And,  by  the  near  guess  of  my  memory. 


I  cannot  instantly  raise  up  the  gross 

Of  full  three  thousand  ducats.     What  of  that? 

Tubal,  a  wealthy  Hebrew  of  my  tribe. 

Will  furnish  me.     But  soft !   how  many  months 

Do  you  desire  ? — Eest  you  foir,  good  signior ; 

[To  AxTOXio. 
Your  worship  was  the  last  man  in  our  moutlis. 

Ant.  Shylock,  albeit  I  neither  lend  nor  borrow 
By  taking,  nor  by  giving  of  excess. 
Yet,  to  supply  the  ripe  wants  of  my  friend, 
I'll  break  a  custom. — Is  he  yet  possess'd,^ 
How  much  you  would  ? 

Shy.  Ay,  aj-,  three  thousand  ducats. 

Ant.  And  for  three  months. 
Shij.  I  had  forgot : — three  months ;  you  told 
me  so. 
Well   then,   your  bond ;    and  let  mo   see — But 

hear  you : 
Methought,  you  said,  you  neither  leud  nor  bor- 
row 
Upon  advantage. 

Arit.  I  do  never  use  it. 

Shy.  When   Jacob  graz'd  his   uncle   Laban's 
sheep. 


1  On  the  liialto.—Tho  Kialto,  one  of  the  islands  upon  which  Yenice  is  built,  jrave  its  name  first  to  the  Exchange 
which  was  built  upon  it,  and  then  to  the  bridge  by  which  it  was  reached.  It  may  mean  here  either  of  the  former ; 
but  probably  the  second  of  them. — White. 

2  I  hate  him/or  he  is  a  Christiini.—Tho  lack  of  a  point  between  'him'  and  'for'  here,  is  not  .accidental.  Shy- 
lock does  not  say  he  hates  Antonio  and  add  his  reason ;  but  makes  a  simple  statement  of  a  simple  thought  (single 
though  composed  of  two  elements)— that  ho  hates  the  Merchant  because  he  is  a  Christian.  This  use  of  'for'  was 
common  in  Shakespeare's  day. — White. 

3  The  rate  of  usance. — Usance,  usury,  and  interest,  were  all  terms  of  precisely  the  same  import  in  Sh.ako- 
speare's  time ;  there  being  then  no  such  law  or  custom  whereby  usury  has  since  come  to  mean  the  taking  of  interest 
above  a  certain  rate.— Ilrnsox. 

1  I'pon  the  hip. — This,  Dr.  Johnson  observes,  is  a  phrase  taken  from  the  practice  <if  wrestlers;  and  (he  might 
have  added)  is  an  allusion  to  the  angel's  thus  laying  hold  on  J.acob  when  he  wrestled  with  him.  See  Gen.  xxxii. 
24,  &c. — TIenlev. 

'  Possesa'd — informed. 


22 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


— This  Jacob  from  our  lioly  Abram  was 
(As  his  wise  mother  wrouprht  in  his  behalf) 
The  third  possessor:  ay,  he  was  the  third. — 
Ant.  Aud  what  of  liirn?  did  he  take  interest? 
Ivj.  No,  not  take  interest;  not,  as  you  would 

say, 
Directly  interest:  mark  what  Jacob  did. 
TVhen  Laban  and  liimself  ^Vere  compromis'd, 
That  all  the  ean lings'  which  were  streak'd  and 

pied, 
Should  fall  as  Jacob's  hire ; 
The  skilful  shepherd  pill'd''  me  certain  wands, 
And,  in  the  doing  of  the  deed  of  kind,^ 
He  stuck  them  up  before  the  fulsome  ewes 
"Who,  then  conceiving,  did  in  caning  time 
Pall*  party-colour'd  lambs ;  and  those  were  Ja- 
cob's. 
This  was  a  way  to  thrive,  and  he  was  bless'd: 
And  thrift  is  blessing,  if  men  steal  it  not. 

Ant.  This  was  a  venture,  sir,  that  Jacob  sers''d 

for; 
A  thing  not  in  his  power  to  bring  to  pass, 
But   swaj-'d,    and   fashion'd,    by   the   hand   of 

Heaven. 
"Was  tins  inserted  to  make  interest  good  ? 
Or  is  your  gold  and  silver  ewes  and  rams  ? 

Shy.  I  cannot  tell:  I  make  it  breed  as  fast. — 
But  note  me,  Signior. 

Ant.  Mark  you  this,  Bassanio, 

The  Devil  can  cite  Scripture  for  his  purpose. 
An  evil  soul,  producing  holy  witness. 
Is  like  a  villain  with  a  smiling  clieek ; 
A  goodly  apple  rotten  at  the  heart. 
0,  what  a  goodly  outside  falsehood  hath  1 

Shy.   Three   thousand   ducats ; — 'tis   a  good 

round  sura. 
Three  months  from  twelve,  then  let  me  see  the 

rate. 
Ant.  "Well,  Shylock,  shall  we  be  beholden  to 

you? 
Shy.  Signior  Antonio,  many  a  time  and  oft. 
In  the  Rial  to  you  have  rated  me 
About  my  moneys,  and  my  usances : 
Still  have  I  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug; 
For  sulT'rance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe. 
Yon  call  me  misbeliever,  cut-throat  dog, 
And  spet'  upon  my  Jewish  gaberdine, 
And  all  for  use  of  that  which  is  mine  own. 
"W'ell  then,  it  now  appears,  you  need  my  help : 
Go  to  then;  j'ou  come  to  me,  and  you  say, 
'Shylock,  we  would  have  moneys:'  you  say  so; 
You,  that  did  void  vour  rheum  upon  my  beard, 
Aud  foot  me,  as  you  sjiurn  a  stranger  cur 
Over  your  threshold:   moneys  is  your  suit. 
"U'hat  should  I  say  to  yo\i  ?     Should  I  not  say, 
'  Hath  a  dog  money?  is  it  possible, 
A  cur  should  lend  three  thousand  ducats?'  or 
Shall  I  bend  low,  and  in  a  bondman's  key, 
"With  'bated  breath,  and  whisp'ring  humbleness. 

Say  this: 

'Fair  sir,  you  spot  on  me  on  Wednesday  last; 


You  spurn'd  mc  such  a  day;  another  time 
You  call'd  me  dog;   aud  for  the.^e  courtesies 
I'll  lend  you  thus  much  moneys?' 

Ant.  I  am  as  like  to  call  thee  so  again, 
To  spet  on  thee  again,  to  spurn  thee  too. 
If  thou  wilt  lend  this  mone}',  lend  it  not 
As  to  thy  friends ;  for  when  did  friendship  take 
A  breed"  of  barren  metal  of  his  friend? 
But  lend  it  rather  to  thine  enemy; 
Who  if  he  break,  thou  may'st  with  better  face 
Exact  the  penalties. 

Shy.  Why,  look  you,  how  you  storm ! 

I  would  be  friends  with  you,  and  have  your  love. 
Forget  the  shames  that  .you  have  stain'd  me  wit'.i, 
Supply  3'our  present  wants,  and  take  no  doit 
Of  usance  for  my  moneys. 
And  you'll  not  hear  me.     This  is  kind  I  offer. 

Ant.  This  were  kindness. 

Shy.  This  kindness  will  I  show. 

Go  with  me  to  a  notary  ;  seal  me  there 
Your  single  bond ;  and,  in  a  merry  sport, 
If  you  repay  me  not  on  such  a  day, 
In  such  a  place,  such  sum  or  sums  as  are 
Express'd  in  the  condition,  let  the  forfeit 
Be  nominated  for  an  equal  pound 
Of  your  fair  flesh,  to  be  cut  ofl'  and  taken 
In  what  part  of  your  body  it  pk aseth  me. 

Ant.  Content,  in  faith:  III  seal  to  such  a  bond, 
And  say  there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew. 

Bass.  You  shall  not  seal  to  such  a  bond  for  me : 
I'll  rather  dwell  in  my  necessity. 

Ant.  W'liy,  fear  not,  man ;  I  will  not  forfeit  it : 
Within   these    two    months, — that's    a    month 

before 
This  bond  expires, — I  do  expect  return 
Of  thrice  three  times  the  value  of  this  bond. 

S)ty.  0,  father  Abram  I  what  these  Christians 
are. 
Whose  own  hard  dealings  teaches  them  suspect 
The  thoughts  of  others ! — Pray  yon,  tell  me  this ; 
If  he  should  break  his  day.  what  should  I  gain 
By  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture? 
A  pound  of  man's  flesh,  taken  from  a  man. 
Is  not  so  estimable,  profitable  neither. 
As  flesh  of  muttons,  beefs,  or  goats,     I  say. 
To  buy  his  favour  I  extend  this  friendship: 
If  he  will  take  it,  so;  if  not,  adieu; 
And,  for  my  love,  I  pray  you,  wrong  mc  not. 

Ant.  Yos.  Shylock,  I  will  seal  imto  this  bond. 

Shy.  Then  meet  nie  forthwith  at  the  notary's. 
Give  him  direction  for  this  merrv  bond. 
And  I  will  go  and  purse  the  ducats  straight ; 
S?e  to  my  house,  left  in  the  fearful  guard' 
Of  an  unthrifty  knave,  and  presently 
I  will  be  with  you.  {^Exit. 

Ant.  Hie  thee,  gentle  Jew. 

This  Hebrew  will  turn  Christian :  he  grows  kind. 

Bass.  I  like  not  fair  terms,  and  a  villain's  mind. 

Ant.  Come  on ;  in  this  there  can  be  no  dismay ; 
Mj'  ships  come  home  a  month  before  the  day. 

\^Exeunt. 


^  Eanlings — lambs  just  brought  forth.  ^  Piird — peeled.  ^  Kind — nature.  *  Full — let  fall. 

'  Spet. — This  is  an  old  form  of 'spit,'  in  which  the  present  and  the  preterite  were  the  same.  Here  the  present 
is  intended  ;  iielow,  the  preterite. — AiViHTE. 

'  Lrced — increase. 

'  Fearful  guard. — A  guard  that  is  the  cause  of  fear,  because  not  to  be  trusted.  Fearful  was  anciently  often 
used  for  exciting  fear,  and  is  not  j-ct  quite  obsolete. — VEEPL4.:iCK. 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


23 


ACT    II. 


Scene  I. — Venice. — Before  Shtlock's  House. 

Enkr  Lauxcelot  Gobbo. 

Launceht.  Certainly,  my  consoienco  will  serve 
me  to  run  from  this  Jew,  my  master.  The  fiend 
is  at  mine  elbow,  and  tempts  me,  saying  to  me, 
'Gobbo,  Launcelot  Gobbo,  p^ood  Launcelot,  or 
good  Gobbo,  or  good  Launcelct  Gobbo,  use  your 
legs,  take  the  start,  run  away:'  My  conscience 
says, — 'No:  take  heed,  honest  Launcelot ;  take 
heed,  honest  Gobbo;  or.  as  aforesaid,  honest 
Launcelot  Gobbo;  do  not  run;  scorn  running 
with  thy  heels.'  Well,  the  most  courageous 
fiend  bids  me  pack;  'Via!'  says  the  fiend; 
' away !'  says  the  fiend;  '  for  the  Heavens,'  rouse 
up  a  brave  mind,'  says  the  fiend,  'and  run.' 
Well,  my  conscience,  hanging  about  the  neck  of 
my  heart,  says  very  wisely  to  me, — '  My  honest 
friend  Launcelot,  being  an  honest  man's  son,' — 
or  rather  an  honest  woman's  son; — for,  indeed, 
my  father  did  something  smack,  something  grow 
to,  he  had  a  kind  of  taste: — well,  my  conscience 
says,  'Launcelot,  budge  not.'  'Budge,'  says  the 
fiend:  'budge  not,'  says  my  conscience.  Con- 
science, say  I,  j'ou  counsel  well;  fiend,  say  I, 
you  counsel  well :  to  be  rul'd  by  my  conscience, 
I  should  stay  with  the  Jew  my  master,  who, 
(God  bless  the  mark!)  is  a  kind  of  devil;  and, 
to  nm  away  from  the  Jew,  I  should  be  ruled  by 
the  fiend,  who,  saving  your  reverence,  is  the 
Devil  himself.  Certainly,  the  Jew  is  the  very 
Devil  incarnation;  and,  in  my  conscience,  my 
conscience  is  but  a  kind  of  hard  conscience  to 
offer  to  counsel  me  to  stay  with  the  Jew.  The 
fiend  gives  the  more  friendly  counsel :  I  will 
run,  fiend;  my  heels  are  at  your  commandment; 
I  will  run. 

Enter  Old  Gobbo,''  tvith  a  Basket. 

Gobbo.  Master  young  man,  you!  I  pray  you, 
whicli  is  the  way  to  Master  Jew's? 

Laun.  [Aside.]  0  Heavens!  this  is  my  true 
begotten  lather,  who,  being  more  than  sand- 
blind,^  high-gravel  blind,^  knows  me  not: — I 
will  try  confusions  with  him. 

Gob.  Master  young  gentleman  I  I  pray  you, 
which  is  the  way  to  Master  Jew's  ? 


Laun.  Turn  up  on  your  right  hand  at  the  next 
turning,  but  at  tiie  next  turning  of  all,  on  your 
left;  marrjr,  at  the  ver}'  next  turning,  turn  of  no 
hand,  but  turn  down  indirectly  to  the  Jew's  house. 

Gob.  'Twill  be  a  hard  way  to  hit.  Can  you 
tell  me  whether  one  Launcelot,  that  dwells  with 
him,  dwell  with  him,  or  no? 

Laun.  Talk  you  of  young  Master  Launcelot  ? — 
[J..swZe.]  Mark  mo  now;  now  will  I  raise  the 
waters. — [To  him.]  Talk  you  of  young  Master 
Launcelot  ? 

Gob.  No  master,  sir,  but  a  poor  man's  son: 
his  father,  though  I  saj^'t,  is  an  honest  exceeding 
poor  man;  and,  God  be  thanked,  well  to  live. 

Laun.  Well,  let  his  father  bo  what  'a  will,  we 
talk  of  young  Master  Launcelot. 

Gob.  Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot,  sir. 

Laun.  But  I  praj'  you,  eirjo,  old  man,  ergo,  I 
beseech  you.  talk  j'ou  of  yotmg  Master  Launcelot. 

Gob.  Of  Launcelot,  an't  please  your  master- 
ship.^ 

Laun.  Ergo,  Master  Launcelot.  Talk  not  of 
Master  Launcelot,  father;  for  the  young  gentle- 
man (according  to  fates  and  destinies,  and  such 
odd  sayings,  the  sisters  three,  and  such  brandi- 
es of  learning.)  is,  indeed,  deceased;  or,  as  you 
would  say,  in  plain  terms,  gone  to  Heaven. 

Gob.  Marry,  God  forbid!  the  boy  was  the 
very  staff  of  my  age,  my  very  prop. 

Laun.  [Aside.]  Do  I  look  like  a  cudgel,  or  a 
hovel-post,  a  staff,  or  a  prop  ? — [To  him.]  Do 
you  know  me,  father  ? 

Gob.  Alack  the  day !  I  know  you  not,  young 
gentleman ;  but,  I  pray  j'ou,  tell  me,  is  my  boy 
(God  rest  his  soul!)  alive,  or  dead  ? 

Laun.  Do  you  not  know  me,  Aether  ?" 

Gob.  Alack,  sir,  I  am  sand-blind ;  I  know 
you  not. 

Laun.  Nay,  indeed,  if  you  had  your  eyes,  you 
might  fail  of  the  knowing  me:  it  is  a  wise 
father,  that  knows  his  own  child.  Well,  old 
man,  I  will  tell  you  news  of  your  son.  [Kneels.] 
Give  me  your  blessing:  truth  will  come  to 
light;  murther  cannot  be  hid  long;  a  man's  son 
may,  but  in  the  end,  truth  will  out. 

Gob.  Pray  you,  sir,  stand  up.  I  am  sure  you 
are  not  Launcelot,  my  boy. 

Laun.  Pray  you,  let's  have  no  more  fooling 
about   it,    but   give   me   your  blessing  •    I    am 


*  For  the  Heavens. — This  w.is  a  petty  oath. 

'  Gohbo. — It  may  be  inferred,  from  the  name  of  Gobbo,  that  Shakespeare  designed  the  character  to  be  represented 
\vith  a  hump-back. — Steevkns. 

3  Sand-blind. — Having  an  imperfect  siglit,  as  if  there  were  sand  in  the  eye. — Nabes. 

*  Illgh-gracel  hIind.—Gratel-hlhid.  a  coinage  of  Limncelot's,  is  the  exaggeration  oi  sand-blind. — KxioiiT. 

*  Launcelot  whimsically  Lakes  his  father  to  Uisk  for  disrespect  to  himself — Launcelot,  and  says,  in  reply  to  (dd 
Gobbo's  statement  of  their  condition  in  life,  "Well,  let  his  father  be  what  he  will,  we  talk  of  young  Master  Launce- 
lot." The  father,  still  un.ible  to  dub  his  .son  'Master,'  replies  deprecatingly,  "  Your  worship's  friend,  and  Launcelot," 
i.  «., '  Aye,  we  speak  of  your  Avorship's  friend,  who  is  Launcelot.'  To  this,  Launcelot,  who  evidently,  like  the  Grave- 
digger  in  Hamlet,  understands,  .after  a  fixshion,  the  Latin  word  he  uses,  rejoins,  "  But  I  pr.ay  you,  ergo,  old  man,  ergo, 
I  beseech  you,  talk  you  of  joung  Master  Launcelot,"  i.  e.,  '  And  therefore,  because  I  am  "'your  worship"  and  he  is 
my  friend,  you  should  speak  of  him  as  Master  Launcelot.' — White. 

*  Father. — Twice  Launcelot  calls  Gobbo  father,  and  yet  the  old  man  drn'S  not  even  suspect  with  whom  he  is 
talking;  the  reason  of  which  is  the  ancient  custom,  almost  universal  .among  the  peasantry,  of  calling  all  old  people 
father  or  mother. — White. 


24 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


Launcelot,  your  boy  that  was,  j'our  son  that  is, 
your  child  tliat  shall  be. 

Gob.  I  cannot  think  _you  are  my  son. 

Laun.  I  know  not  what  I  shaU  think  of  that; 
but  I  am  Launcelot,  the  Jew's  man,  and,  I  am 
sure,  Margery,  your  wife,  is  my  mother. 

Gob.  Her  name  is  Margery,  indeed:  I'll  be 
sworn,  if  thou  be  Launcelot,  thou  art  mine  own 
flesh  and  blood.  Lord !  worshipp'd  might  he 
be!  what  a  beard  hast  thou  got:  thou  liast  got 
more  hair  on  thy  chin,  than  Dobbin,  my  phill- 
horse'  has  on  his  tail. 

Laun.  It  should  seem,  then,  that  Dobbin's 
tail  grows  backward:  I  am  sure  he  had  more 
hair  of  his  tail,  than  I  have  of  my  face,  when  I 
last  saw  him. 

Gob.  Lord !  how  art  thou  chang'd !  How 
dost  thou  and  thy  master  agree?  I  have  brought 
him  a  present.     How  'gree  you  now  ? 

Laun.  Well,  well ;  but,  for  mine  own  part,  as 
I  have  set  up  my  rest"  to  run  away,  so  I  will 
not  rest  till  I  have  run  some  ground.  My  mas- 
ter's a  very  Jew:  give  him  a  present!  give  him 
a  halter:  I  am  famish'd  in  his  service;  you 
may  tell  every  finger  I  have  with  my  ribs. 
Father,  I  am  glad  you  are  come:  give  me  your 
present  to  one  Master  Bassanio,  who,  indeed, 
gives  rare  new  liveries.  If  I  serve  not  him,  I 
will  run  as  far  as  God  has  any  ground. '•* — 0  rare 
fortune!  here  comes  the  man: — to  him,  father; 
for  I  am  a  Jew,  if  I  serve  the  Jew  any  longer. 


Enter    Bassaxio,    luith    Leoxardo, 
Followers. 


and 


Bass.  You  mn}^  do  so ; — but  let  it  be  so  hasted, 
that  supper  be  ready  at  the  farthest  by  five  of 
the  clock.  See  ihese  letters  delivered:  put  the 
liveries  to  making,  and  desire  Gratiano  to  come 
anon  to  my  lodging.  [Exit  a  Servant. 

Laun.  To  him,  father. 

Gob.  God  bless  your  Avor.ship  I 

Bass.  Gramercy.  AVould'st  thou  aught  with 
me? 

Gob.  Here's  my  son,  sir,  a  poor  boy. — 

Laun.  Not  a  poor  boy,  sir,  but  the  rich  Jew's 
man,  that  would,  sir, — as  my  father  shall  specify. 

Gob.  He  hath  a  great  infection,  sir,  as  one 
would  say,  to  serve — 


Laun.  Indeed,  the  short  and  the  long  is,  I 
serve  the  Jew,  and  have  a  desire, — as  my 
father  shall  specify. 

Gob.  His  master  and  he  (saving  your  wor- 
ship's reverence)  are  scarce  cater-cousins. 

Latcn.  To  be  brief,  the  very  truth  is,  that  the 
Je\V  having  done  me  wrong,  doth  cause  me, — 
as  my  father,  being,  I  hope,  an  old  man,  shall 
fruti fy  unto  j'ou. 

Gob.  I  have  here  a  di.sh  of  doves,^  that  I 
would  bestow  upon  your  worship ;  and  my 
suit  is, — 

Laun.  In  very  brief,  the  suit  is  impertinent' 
to  myself,  as  j'our  lordship  shall  know  by  this 
lionest  old  man;  and,  though  I  say  it,  though 
old  man,  yet,  poor  man,  my  father. 

Bass.  One  speak  for  both. — What  would  you  ? 

Laun.  Serve  you,  sir. 

Gob.  That  is  the  very  defect  of  the  matter,  sir. 

Bass.  I  know  thee  well:  thou  hast  obtaiu'd 
thy  suit. 
Shylock,  thy  ma.ster,  spoke  with  me  this  day. 
And  hath  preferr'd  thee  ;   if  it  be  preferment, 
To  leave  a  rich  Jew's  service,  to  become 
The  follower  of  so  poor  a  gentleman. 

Laun.  The  old  proverb''  is  very  well  parted 
between  my  master  Shylock  and  you,  sir:  you 
have  the  grace  of  God,  sir,  and  he  hath  enough. 

Bass.  Thou  speak'st  it  well. — Go,  father,  with 
thy  son. — 
Take  leave  of  thy  old  master,  and  inquire 
My  lodging  out. — Give  him  a  livery 

[To  his  Followers. 
More  guarded'  than  his  fellows' ;  see  it  done. 

Laun.  Father,  in. — I  cannot  get  a  service, — 
no ; — I  have  ne'er  a  tongue  in  my  head. — 
[Looks  on  his  palni.1  Well,  if  any  man  in  Italy 
have  a  fairer  table,"  which  doth  offer  to  swear 
upon  a  book  !" — I  shall  have  good  fortune. — Go 
to;  here's  a  simple  line  of  life!  here's  a  small 
trifle  of  wives:  alas!  fifteen  wives  is  nothing, 
aleven^"  widows,  and  nine  maids,  is  a  simple 
coming-in  for  one  man ;  and  then,  to  'scape 
drowning  thrice,  and  to  be  in  peril  of  my  life 
with  the  edge  of  a  feather-bed:" — here  are  sim- 
ple 'scapes  !  Well,  if  Fortune  be  a  woman,  she's 
a  good  wench  for  this  gear. — Father,  come ;  I'll 
take  my  leave  of  tlie  Jew  in  the  twinkling  of  an 
eye.  [Exeunt  Launcelot  and  Old  Gobbo. 


'  Phill-horse — thill-horsc,  shaft-horse.  Phil  or  fill  is  the  term  in  .ill  the  midland  counties,— ?/a?i!  would  not  be 
understood. — Hap.ris. 

^  Set  up  my  rest — determined. 

3  I  will  run  as  fur  as  God  has  any  ground.— To  underst.ind  tht'  .Tppmpriatcness  of  these  words,  we  must 
remember  that  in  Venice  it  was  not  easy  to  find  ground  enough  to  run  upon. — IItdson. 

*  A  dish  o/dores. — This  was  a  common  Italian  present. 
'  Impertinent. — Launcelot  means  to  say  pertinent. 

^  The  old  proverb.— It  is  uncertain  what  proverb  Is  here  alluded  to.     White  s.".y.s,  '-from  the  text  it  would 
soem  to  have  been, '  lie  who  hath  God's  grace  hath  enough 
'  Guarded — ornamented. 

*  Table. — Table,  in  the  language  of  fortune-tellers,  is  the  p.alm  of  the  hand. 

9  }Ven.  if  any  jnan  in  Italy  lutve  a  fairer  table.,  which  doth  offer  to  sivear  upon  a  hook. — The  construction 
is,  'Well,  if  any  man  in  Italy  which  doth  offer  to  swear  upon  a  book  have  a  fairer  table," — the  e.xpression  being  of 
that  pleonastic  form  (for  'any  man")  which  is  common  among  the  uncultivated,  as  'any  man  that  breathes,"  'any 
man  that  walks  on  shoe  leather,"  &c.,  &c.  After  having  thus  admired  the  fairness  of  his  'table,"  Launcelot  breaks 
off  to  predict  his  good  fortune. — Whitk. 

'"  Aleven. — Aleven  was  a  vulg.arism  for  eleven.— Vt  iwi^. 

"  In  peril  of  my  life  with  the  edge  of  a  feather-hed. — A  cant  phrase  to  signify  the  danger  of  marrying. — 
Waeburtox.  ■■     ^  ■      ■ 


THE   IklERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


25 


Ba,ss.  I  pray  tliee,  ?ood  Leonardo,  think  on  this. 
These  things  being  boiiglit,  and  orderly  bestow'd, 
Return  in  haste ;   for  I  do  feast  to-night 
My  best  esteem'd  acquaintance",   liie  thee;  go. 

Leonardo.  My  best  endeavours  shall  be  done 
herein.  [Exewit  all  but  Leonardo. 

Enter  Gratiaxo. 

Gia.  "Where  is  your  master  ? 
Leon.  Yonder,  sir,  he  walks. 

[Exit  Leonardo. 
Gra.  Siguior  Bassanio! 

lie-enter  Bassanio, 

Bass.  Gratiano. 

Gra.  I  have  a  suit  to  you. 

Bass  You  have  obtain'd  it. 

Gra.  You  must  not  deny  me.    I  must  go  with 
you  to  Belmont. 

B:(ss.  Why,   then  j-ou  must;   but  hear  thee, 
Gratiano. 
Thou  art  too  wild,  too  rude,  and  bold  of  voice ; — 
Parts  that  become  thee  happily  enough, 
And  in  such  eyes  as  ours  appear  not  f'aulLs, 
But  where  thou  art  not  known,  why,  there  tliDy 

show 
Something  too  liberal.' — ^Pray  thee,  take  pain 
To  allay  with  some  cold  drops  of  modesty 
Thy  skipping  spirit,  lest  through  thy  wild  beha- 
viour, 
I  be  misconster'd^  in  the  place  I  go  to. 
And  lose  my  hopes. 

Gra.  Signior  Bassanio,  hear  me : 

If  I  do  not  put  on  a  sober  habit, 
Talk  with  respect,  and  swear  but  now  and  then. 
Wear    prayer-books   in   my   pocket,   look    de- 
murely ; 
Nay,  more,  while  grace  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 
Thus  with  my  hat,'  and  sigh,  and  saj^  Amen; 
Use  all  the  observance  of  civility. 
Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent* 
To  please  his  grandam,  never  trust  me  more. 

Bcuss.  Well,  we  shall  see  your  bearing. 

Gra.  Nay,  but  I  bar  to-night:  you  shall  not 
gage  me 
By  what  we  do  to-night.  ! 

Bass.  No,  that  were  a  pity      i 

I  would  entreat  you  rather  to  put  on  j 

Your  boldest  suit  of  mirth ;  for  we  have  friends 
That  purpose  merriment.     But  fare  you  well, 
I  have  some  business. 

Gra.  And  I  must  to  Lorenzo,  and  the  rest ; 
But  we  will  visit  you  at  supper-time.      [Exeunt. 

Enter  Jessica  and  Launcelot. 

Jessica.  I  am  sorry  thou  wilt  leave  my  father 
so: 
Our  house  is  Hell,  and  thou,  a  merry  devil. 


Didst  rob  it  of  some  taste  of  tediousness. 
But  fare  thee  well ;  there  is  a  ducat  for  thee. 
And,  Launcelot,  soon  at  supper  shalt  thou  see 
Lorenzo,  who  is  tliy  new  master's  guest ; 
Give  him  this  letter ;  do  it  secretly ; 
And  so  farewell:  I  would  not  have  my  father 
See  me  in  talk  with  thee. 

Laun.  Adieu ! — tears  exhibit  my  tongue. — 
Most  beautiful  pagan, — most  sweet  Jew!  If  a 
Christian  did  not  play  the  knave,  and  get^  thee, 
I  am  much  deceived:  bv.t,  adieu!  these  foolish 
drops  do  somewhat  drown  my  manly  spirit: 
adieu !  [Exit. 

Jus.  Farewell,  good  Launcelot. — 
Alack,  what  heinous  sin  is  it  in  me 
To  be  asham'd  to  be  mj-  father's  child! 
But  though  I  am  a  daughter  to  his  blood, 
I  am  not  to  his  manners.     0  Lorenzo ! 
If  thou  keep  promise,  I  shall  end  this  strife. 
Become  a  Christian,  and  thy  loving  wife.    [Exit. 


Scene  II. — The  same. — A  Street. 

Enter   Gratiano,    Lorenzo,    Salarino,   and 
Salanio, 

Lor.  Nay,  we  will  slink  away  in  supper-time, 
Disguise  us  at  my  lodging,  and  return 
All  in  an  hour. 

Gra.  We  have  not  made  good  preparation. 
Solar.   We  have  not  spoke  us  yet  of  torch- 

bearers.° 
Solan.   'Tis  vile,  imless   it   may  be  quaintly 
order'd. 
And  better,  in  my  mind,  not  undertook. 

Lor.  'Tis  now  but  four  o'clock:  we  have  two 
hours 
To  furnish  us. — 

Enter  Launcelot,  with  a  Letter. 

Friend  Launcelot,  what's  the  news  ? 

Laun.  An  it  shall  please  you  to  break  up  this, 
it  shall  seem  to  signify.  [Giving  the  letter. 

Lor.  I  know  the  hand:  in  faith,  'tis  a  fair  hand ; 
And  whiter  than  the  paper  it  writ  on. 
Is  the  fair  hand  that  Avrit. 

Gra.  Love-news,  in  faith. 

Laun.  By  your  leave,  sir. 

Lor.  Whither  goest  thou? 

Laun.  Marry,  sir,  to  bid  my  old  master  the 
Jew,  to  sup  to-night  with  my  new  master,  the 
Christian. 

Lor.  Hold  here,  take  this. — Tell  gentle  Jessica 
I  will  not  fail  her: — speak  it  privately; 
Go. —  [Exit  Launcelot. 

Gentlemen, 
Will  you  prepare  you  for  this  masque  to-night? 
I  am  provided  of  a  torch-bearer. 

Salar.  Ay,  marry,  I'll  be  gone  about  it  straight. 


1  Liberal — coarse. 

' while  gritce  is  saying,  hood  mine  eyes 

Thus  icith  my  hat. 

It  W.1S  formerly  the  custom  to  wear  the  hat  at  me.als. 
*,  Ostent — appearance. 


^  Jnscon8ter''d — misconstrued. 


*  Get — beset. 


'  J^ot  spoke  us  yet  of  torch-bearers— not  yet  bespoken  torch-bearers. 


26 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


Falan.  And  so  will  I. 

Lor.  Meet  me,  and  Gratiano, 

At  Gratiano's  lodgintr  some  hour  hence. 

Salar.  'Tis  good  we  do  so. 

[Exeunt  Salarixo  and  Salaxio. 

Gra.  "Was  not  that  latter  from  fair  Jessica  ? 

Lor.   I  must  needs  tell  thee  all.     She  hath 
directed 
How  I  shall  take  her  from  her  father's  house ; 
What  frold,  and  jewels,  she  is  furtiish'd  with ; 
"What  pap,e's  suit  she  hath  in  readiness. 
If  e'er  the  Jew  her  father  come  to  Heaven, 
It  will  be  for  his  gentle  daughter's  sake ; 
And  never  dare  misfortune  cross  her  loot, 
Unless  she  do  it  under  tliis  excuse. 
That  she  is  issue  to  a  faithless  Jew. 
Come,  go  with  me:  peruse  tiiis  as  thou  jroest. 
Fair  Jessica  shall  be  my  torch-bearer      [Exeunt. 

Scene  III. — The  same. — Before  Siiylock's 
House. 

Enter  Shylock  and  Lauxcelot. 

Shy.  "V\'ell,  thou  shalt  see ;  thy  ej'es  shall  be 
thy  judge, 
The  difference  of  old  Shylock  and  Bassanio. — 
What,  Jessica! — thou  shalt  not  gormandize, 
As  thou  hast  done  with  me, — What.  Jessica! — 
And  sleep  and  snore,  and  rend  apparel  out. — 
Why,  Jessica,  I  say! 


L'lun.  Why,  Jessica ! 

Shy.  Who  bids  thee  call  ?     I  do  not  bid  thee 

call. 
Laun.  Your  worship  was  wont  to  tell  me  I 
could  do  nothing  without  bidding. 

Enter  Jessica. 

Ji-.s.  Call  you?     What  is  your  will? 

Shy.  I  am  bid  forth  to  supper,  Jessica . 
There  are  my  keys. — But  wherefore  should  I  go  7 
I  am  not  bid  for  love ;  they  flatter  me  : 
But  yet  I'll  go  in  hate,  to  feed  upon 
Tlie  prodigal  Christian. — Jessica,  my  girl, 
Look  to  my  house: — I  am  right  loath  to  go. 
There  is  some  ill  a-brewing  towards  my  rest, 
For  I  did  dream  of  money-bags  to-night. 

Laun.  I  beseech  you.  sir,  go:  my  young  master 
doth  expect  jour  reproacli. 

Shy.  So  do  I  his. 

Laun.  And  they  have  conspired  together: — I 
will  not  say  you  shall  see  a  masque ;  but  if  you 
do,  then  it  was  not  for  nothing  that  my  nose  fell 
a  bleeding  on  Black  Monday  last,'  at  six  o'clock 
i'th'  morning,  falling  out  that  year  on  Ash- 
Wednesday  was  four  year  in  th'  afternoon. 

Shy.  What!  are  there  masques? — Hear  you 
me,  Jessica: 
Lock  up  my  doors ;  and  when  you  hear  the  drum, 
And  the  vile  squealing  of  the  wry-ucck'd  fifo,^ 
Clamber  not  you  up  to  the  casements  then, 


J  My  nose  fell  a  bleedin/j  on  Black  Mondittj  ^us^.— Clee.ling:  .it  the  noso  w.ns  formerly  thoiisrlit  to  be  ominous. 
Stow,  the  Chronicler,  says  Black  Monday  cot  its  name  from  the  following  occurrence.  On  April  14th.  13C0  (Kastei 
Monday),  Edward  III.,  "with  his  host,  lay  before  the  city  of  Paris:  which  day  was  full  dark  of  mist  and  hail,  amj 
so  bitter  cold,  that  many  men  died  on  their  horses"  backs  with  the  cold." 

2  F>fe.—'Y\\Q  fife  does  not  mean  the  instrument,  but  the  person  who  played  on  it.  So  in  Barn.aby  r.ich's 
Aphorisms  at  the  end  of  his  Irish  Hubbub,  161S:  "A  Jffc  is  a  wry-ncckt  musician,  for  ho  alw.ays  looks  away  from 
his  instrumer.t." — Coswell. 


THE    MERCHANT    OF  VENICE. 


27 


Nor  thrust  your  head  into  tho  public  street 
To  gaze  on  Christian  fools  with  varnish'd  laces ; 
But  stop  my  house's  ears,  I  mean  my  casements : 
Let  not  the  sound  of  shallow  foppery  enter 
My  sober  house. — By  Jacob's  staff,  I  swear, 
I  have  no  mind  of  feastino;  forth  to-night; 
But  I  will  go. — Go  3^ou  before  me,  sirrah: 
Say  I  will  come. 

Laun.  I  will  go  before,  sir. — Mistress,  look  out 
at  window,  for  all  this ; 

Thei-e  .will  come  a  Christian  b}-, 

Will  be  worth  a  Jewes'  eye."  [Exit. 

Shy.  What  says  that  fool  of  Hagar's  offspring? 
ha! 

Jes.    His   words   were.    Farewell,    Mistress ; 
nothing  else. 

SJnj.  The  patch^  is  kind  enough;  but  a  huge 
feeder. 
Snail-slow  in  profit,  and  he  sleeps  by  day 
More  than  the  wild  cat:  drones  hive  not  with  me ; 
Therefore  I  part  with  him.  and  part  with  him 
To  one  that  I  would  have  him  help  to  waste 
His  borrow'd  purse. — Well,  Jessica,  go  in: 
Perhaps  T  will  return  immediately. 
Do  as  I  bid  you;  shut  doors  after  you: 
'Fast  bind,  fast  find.' 
A  proverb  never  stale  in  thrifty  mind.        [ExU. 

Jes.  Farewell;  andif  my  fortune  be  not  cross'd, 
I  have  a  lather,  you  a  daughter,  lost.  [Exit. 

Enter  Gratiaxo  and  Salarino,  maiqued. 

Gra.   This   is   the   pent-houje,   under  whic'.i 
Lorenzo 
Desired  us  to  make  a  stand. 

Sakir.  His  hour 

Is  almost  past. 

Gra.  And  it  is  marvel  he  out-dwells  his  hour, 
For  lovers  ever  run  before  the  clock. 

Salar.  01  ten  times  fiister  Venus' pigeons*  fly 
To  seal  love's  bonds  new-made,  than  they  are 

wont 
To  keep  obliged  faitli  unforfeited! 

Gra.  That  over  holds:  who  riseth  from  a  feast 
With  that  keen  appetite  that  he  sits  down? 
Where  is  the  horse  that  doth  untread  again 
His  tedious  measures  with  the  unbated  fire 
That  he  did  pace  them  first  ?    All  things  that  arc. 
Are  wiih  more  spirit  cliased  than  cujoyVl. 
How  like  a  younger,^  or  a  prodigal, 
The  scarfed  bark*^  puts  from  her  native  bay. 
Hiigg'd  and  embraced  by  the  strumpet  wind! 


How  like  the  prodigal  doth  she  return; 
With  over-weather'd  ribs,  and  ragged  sails, 
Lean,  rent,  and  beggar'd  by  the  strumpet  wind ! 
Salar.   Here  comes  Lorenzo : — more  of  this 
hereafter. 

Enter  LOREXZO. 

Lor.  Sweet  friends,  your  patience  for  my  long 

abode ; 
Not  T,  but  my  affairs  have  made  you  wait: 
When  you  shall  please  to  play  the  thieves  for 

wives, 
I'll  watch  as  long  for  you  then. — Approach; 
Here  dwells  my  father  Jew. 

SON'G. 
Hark!  hark!''  the  lark  at  heaven's  gate  sings, 

And  Phcehus  'gins  arise, 
His  steels  to  ivaler  at  tho^e  fprirgs 

On  chalic\l flowers  that  lie's; 
And  winking  Mar]/-huds  begin  to  ope  their  golden 

eyes ; 
With  every  thing  that  i^retty  is,  my  lady  siveet, 
arise ; 

Arise,  Arise! 

Jessica  at  the  Windoiv,  in  boy's  clothes. 

Jes.  Who  are  .you?  Tell  me  for  more  certainty; 
Albeit  I'll  swear  that  I  do  know  j'our  tongue. 
Lor.  Lorenzo,  and  thy  love. 
Jes.  Lorenzo,  certain;  and  my  love,  indeed. 
For  whom  love  I  so  much  ?     And  now  who 

knows. 
But  you,  Lorenzo,  whether  I  am  yours? 

Lor.   Heaven  and  thy  thoughts  are  witness 

that  thou  art. 
Jes.  Here,  catch  this  casket:   it  is  worth  the 
pains. 
I  am  glad  'tis  night,  you  do  not  look  on  me, 
For  I  am  much  asham'd  of  my  exchange; 
But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit; 
For  if  they  could,  Cupid  himself  would  blush 
To  see  me  thus  transformed  to  a  ho}'. 

Lor.  Descend,  for  j^ou  must  be  ray  torch-bearer. 
Jes.  What!    must   I    hold   a   candle   to   my 
shames? 
They  in  themselves,  good  sooth,  arc   too-too" 

light. 
Why,  'tis  an  office  of  discovery,  love, 
And  I  should  be  obscur'd. 


'  Jeicen — Jews.  The  term  Jew  was  anciently  applied  to  Hebrew.s  of  bo'li  se.xes.  The  old  Saxon  genitive  form 
is  here  used  for  the  sake  of  rhythm. 

2  Will  be  worth  a  Jewes  eye. — White  says,  this  is  an  allusion  to  the  '•enormous  sums  extorted  by  the  Front- 
de-bix,ufi  of  old  from  Jews,  as  ransom  for  their  eyes." 

3  Patch.— Jhii  domestic  fool  was  sometimes  called  a  patch;  and  it  is  probable  that  this  class  was  thus  named 
from  the  patched  dress  of  their  vocation.  The  usurper  in  'llamlet,'  the  "vice  of  king.'!,"'  was  "a  king  of  shreds  and 
patclies."  It  Is  probable,  that  in  this  way  tho  word  patch  came  to  be  nn  expression  of  contempt,  as  in  'A  Mid- 
summer-Night's Dream," — • 

"A  crew  of  patches,  rude  mechanicals."' 

Shylock  here  uses  the  word  in  this  sense;  just  as  we  say  still,  cro.%t-putch. — Kxigiit. 

*  Venus'  pigeon.t. — Venus'  pigeons,  I  apprehend,  means  the  doves  by  which  her  chariot  is  drawn. — Eoswelu 
^  Younger — youngling. 

*  The  scarfed  htn-k — the  vessel  decorated  with  flags. — Steevens. 

'  ILtrk  !  hurlc!  &C. — This  beautiful  song  is  transferred  from  "  Cymbeline."  It  was  customary,  even  in 
Shakespeare's  time,  to  introduce  a  sons  in  this  place,  as  the  old  'prompt-book'  shows. 

*  7"oo-<oO.— This  is  an  ohl  intensive  form  of  too. 


28 


THE  MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


Lor.  So  aro  you,  sweet, 

Eveu  in  tlie  lovely  garnish  of  a  boy. 
But  come  at  once ; 

For  tlie  close  night  dotli  play  the  run-away 
And  we  are  stay'd  for  at  Bassanio's  feast. 

Jes.  I  will  make  fast  the  doors,  and  gild  myself 

"With  some  more  ducats,  and  be  witli  you  straight. 

[Exit,  from  the  Windoio. 

Gra.  Now,  by  my  hood,'  a  Gentile,  and  no 
Jew.'^ 

Lor.  Beshrew  me,  but  I  love  her  heartily ; 


For  she  is  wise,  if  I  can  judge  of  Iier; 
And  fair  slie  is,  if  that  mine  eyes  be  true; 
And  true  she  is,  as  she  hath  prov'd  herself; 
And  therefore,  like  lierself,  wise,  fair,  and  true, 
Shall  she  be  placed  in  my  constant  soul. 

Eater  Jessic.-i. 

What,  art  thou  come  ? — On,  gentlemen ;  away ! 
Our  masquing  males  by  this  time  for  us  stay. 

[Exeunt 


ACT    III. 


Scene  I. — Belmont. — An  Apartment  in  Porti.a.'s 
House. 

Flourish  of  Cornets.     The  Prince  of  Arragon, 
Portia,  and  their  Attendants  discovered. 

For.  Behold,   there  stand  the  caskets,  noble 

Prince: 
If  you  choose  that  wherein  I  am  contain'd. 
Straight  shall  our  nuptial  rites  be  solemniz'd ; 
But  if  you  fail,  without  more  speech,  my  lord, 
You  must  be  gone  from  lience  immediately. 
Arragon.  I  am   enjoin"d  by  oatli  to  observe 

three  things: 
First,  never  to  unfold  to  any  one 
"Which  casket  'twas  I  chose:  nest,  if  I  fail 
Of  the  riglit  casket,  never  in  my  life 
To  woo  a  maid  in  way  of  marriage: 
Lastly,  if  I  do  fail  in  fortune  of  my  choice. 
Immediately  to  leave  you  and  be  gone. 

For.    To   these   injunctions   every  one   doth 

swear. 
That  comes  to  hazard  for  my  worthless  self. 
Ar.  And  so  have  I  address'd'  me:   Fortune 

now 
To  my  heart's  hope ! — Gold,  silver,  and  base  lead. 
Who  chooseth  me  must  give  and  hazard  all  he  hath: 
You  shall  look  fairer,  ere  I  give,  or  hazard. 
"What  says  the  golden  chest?  ha !  let  me  see: — 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  gain  what  many  men  desire. 
"What  many  men  desire: — that  many  may  be 

meant 
By'  the  fool  multitude,  that  choose  by  show. 
Not  learning  more  tlian  the  fond  eye  doth  teach  ; 
"Which  pries  not  to  tli'  interior,  but,  like  the 

martlet. 
Builds  in  the  weather,  on  the  outward  wall, 
Even  in  the  force"  and  road  of  casualty. 
I  will  not  choose  what  many  men  desire. 
Because  I  will  not  jump*^  with  common  spirits, 
And  rank  me  with  the  barbarous  multitudes. 
"Why,  then  to  thee,  thou  silver  treasure-house ; 


Tell  me  once  more  what  title  thou  dost  bear: 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  mwh  as  he  deserves  • 
And  well  said  too;  for  who  shall  go  about 
To  cozen  Fortune,  and  be  honourable, 
"Without  the  stamp  of  merit?    Let  none  presume 
To  wear  an  undeserved  dignity. 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  get  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
I  will  assume  desert: — Give  me  a  key  for  thi.s, 
And  instantly  unlock  my  fortunes  here. 

For.  Too  long  a  pause  for  that  wliich  you  find 
there. 

Ar.  "What's  here?  the  portrait  of  a  blinking 
idiot, 
Presenting  me  a  schedule?     I  will  read  it 
How  much  unlike  art  thou  to  Portia  I 
How  much  unlike  my  hopes,  and  my  deservings! 
Who  chooseth  me  shall  have  as  much  as  he  deserves. 
Did  I  deserve  no  more  than  a  fool's  head? 
Is  that  my  prize  ?  are  my  deserts  no  better  ? 

For   To  offend,  and  judge,  are  distinct  offices, 
And  of  opposed  natures. 

Ar.  "What  is  here  ? 

"  The  fire  seven  times  tried  this: 
Seven  times  tried  thatjudrpnent  is, 
That  did  never  choose  amiss. 
Som".  there  be  that  shadows  kiss  ; 
Such  have  hut  a  shadow^ s  bliss. 
There  be  fools  alire,  I  wis, 
Silvered  o'er ;  and  so  was  this." 

Still  more  fool  I  shall  appear 

By  the  time  I  linger  here: 

With  one  fool's  head  I  came  to  woo; 

But  I  go  away  with  two. — 

Sweet,  adieu.     I'll  keep  my  oath, 

Patiently  to  bear  my  wroth.' 

[Exeunt  Arragox  a7id  his  Attendants. 
For.  Thus  hath  the  candle  sing'd  the  moth. 
0,  these  deliberate  fools,  when  they  do  choose, 
They  have  the  ^visdom  by  their  wit  to  lose. 
Aer.  The  ancient  saying  is  no  heresy : — 
Hanging  and  wiving  goes  bj^  destiny. 


1  ybic,  by  my  Aooe^ —Malone  and  Stcpvens  snppose  Gratiano  to  swear  by  the  hood  of  his  masquins  dress— a 
very  strange  thin?  to  swear  by.  They  may  be  right.  But  I  had  .always  understood  the  ancient  oath  by  my 
hood,'  here  and  elsewliere  to  be,  'by  my  self,'  /.  «.,  'by  my  estate '—manhood,  kinghood,  knighthood,  or  whatever 
the  hood  or  estate  of  the  protestor  might  be.— White. 

-A  Gentile  and  no  Jew.— A  }cs,t  arising  from  the  ambiguity  of 'Gentile,' which  signifies  both  a  heathen  and 
one  well  born. — Johnson. 

3  Addressed— prepavei.         *  ^y— for.         =  i^orce- power.         ^  ./i<OT_p— agree.  '  IFro^A— misfortune. 


THE   MERCHA'N'T   OF  VENICE. 


29 


Enter  Balthazar. 

Bal.  Where  is  my  lady  ? 

For.  Here;  what  ■would  my  lord?' 

Bal.  Madam,  there  is  alighted  at  your  gate 
A  young  Venetian,  one  tliat  comes  before 
To  signify  Ih'  approaching  of  his  lord. 
From  whom  he  bringeth  sensible  re-greets;" 
To    wit,    (besides    commends,    and    courteous 

breath,) 
Gifts  of  rich  value ;  yet  I  have  not  seen 
So  likely  an  embassador  of  love. 
A  day  in  April  never  came  so  sweet, 
To  show  how  costly  Summer  was  at  hand, 
As  this  fore-spurrer  comes  before  his  lord. 

For.  No  more,  I  pray  thee  •  I  am  half  afeard 
Thou  wilt  say  anon  he  is  some  kin  to  thee. 
Thou  spend'sL   such   high-day  wit  in  praising 

him. — 
Come,  come.  Nerissa ;  for  I  long  to  see 
Quick  Cupid's  post,  that  comes  so  mannerly. 

Ker   Bassanio,  lord  Love,  if  thy  will  it  be ! 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  II. — Venice. — A  Street. 
Enter  Salauino  and  Salaxio. 

Salar.  Whj',  man,  I  saw  Bassanio  under  sail: 
With  him  is  Gratiauo  gone  along; 
And  in  their  ship,  I  am  sure,  Lorenzo  is  not. 

Sedan.    The  villain  Jew  with   outcries  rais'd 
the  Duke, 
Who  went  with  him  to  search  Bassanio's  ship. 

Salar.  He  came  too  late,  the  ship  was  under 
sail: 
But  there  the  Duke  was  given  to  understand. 
That  in  a  gondola  were  seen  together 
Lorenzo  and  his  amorous  Jessica. 
Besides,  Antonio  certified  the  Duke, 
They  were  not  with  Bassanio  in  his  ship. 

Salan.  I  never  heard  a  passion  so  coufus'd, 
So  strange,  outrageous,  and  so  variable. 
As  the  dog  Jew  did  luter  iu  the  streets: 
'•  My  daughter ! — 0  my  ducats! — 0  my  daughter! 
Fled  with  a  Christian  ? — 0  my  Christian  ducats  ! 
Justice !  the  law !  my  ducats,  and  my  daughter  ! 
A  sealed  bag,  two  sealed  bags  of  ducats. 
Of    double    ducats,    stol'n    from    me    by    my 

daughter!" 
Let  good  Antonio  look  he  keep  his  day. 
Or  he  shall  pay  for  this. 

Salar.  Marry,  well  remember'd. 

I  reason'd^  with  a  Frenchman  yesterday. 
Who  told  me,  in  the  narrow  seas  that  part 
The  French  and  English,  there  miscarried 
A  vessel  of  our  country,  richly  fraught. 


I  thought  upon  Antonio  when  he  told  me. 
And  wish'd  in  silence  that  it  were  not  his. 

Salan.  You  were  best  to  tell  Antonio  what 
you  hear; 
Yet  do  not  suddenly,  for  it  may  grieve  him. 

Salar.  A  kinder  gentleman  treads  not  the  earth. 
I  saw  Bassanio  and  Antonio  part. 
Bassanio  told  him  he  would  make  some  speed 
Of  his  return :  he  auswer'd — "  Do  not  so ; 
Slubber*  not  business  for  my  sake,  Bassanio, 
But  stay  the  very  riping  of  the  time. 
And  for  the  Jew's  bond,  which  he  hath  of  me, 
Let  it  not  enter  in  your  mind  of  love.* 
Be  merry  and  employ  your  chiefest  thoughts 
To  courtship,  and  such  fair  ostents  of  love 
As  shall  conveniently  become  you  there." 
And  even  there,  his  eye  being  big  with  tears, 
Turning  his  face,  he  put  his  hand  behind  him, 
And,  with  aflection  wondrous  sensible. 
He  wrung  Bassanio's  hand ;  and  so  they  parted. 

Salan.  I  think  he  only  loves  the  world  for  him. 
I  pray  thee  let  us  go,  and  find  him  out. 
And  quicken  his  embraced  heaviness^ 
With  some  delight  or  other. 

Salar.  Do  we  so.     [E.ceunt. 

Scene  III. — Genoa. — A  Garden. 
Enter  Launcelot  and  Jessica. 

Laun.  Yes,  truly;  for,  look  vou,  the  sins  of 
the  father  are  to  be  laid  upon  the  children ; 
therefore,  I  promise  }'ou,  I  fear  you.'  I  was 
always  plain  with  you,  and  so  now  I  speak  my 
agitation  of  the  matter",  therefore,  be  of  good 
cheer,  for,  truly,  I  think,  you  are  damn'd. 
There  is  but  one  hope  in  it  that  can  do  you  any 


Jes.  And  what  hope  is  that,  I  pray  thee  ? 

Laun.  Marry,  you  may  partly  hojie  that  you 
are  not  the  Jew's  daughter. 

Jes.  So  the  sins  of  my  mother  should  be  vis- 
ited upon  me. 

Laun.  Truly,  then,  I  fear  you  are  damned  both 
by  father  and  mother :  thus  when  I  shun  Scylla, 
vour  father,  I  fall  into  Cliarybdis,'  your  mother. 
Well,  you  are  gone  both  ways. 

Jes.  I  shall  be  sav'd  by  my  husband  ;  he  hath 
made  me  a  Christian. 

Laun.  Truly,  the  more  to  blame  he  :  we  were 
Christians  enow  before ;  e'en  as  many  as  could 
well  live  one  by  another.  This  making  of  Chris- 
tians will  raise  the  price  of  hogs  ;  if  we  grow  all 
to  be  pork-eaters,  we  shall  not  shortly  have  a 
rasher  on  the  coals  for  monej'. 

Jes.  I'll  teU  my  husband,  Launcelot,  what  you 
say:  here  he  comes. 


'  What  icoiild  my  lord  T — A  sportive  rejoinder  to  the  .abrupt  exclamation  of  the  messenger. — Dyce. 

2  Re-greet«~SA\nta.tion%.  3  ^etiwuV/— discoursM.  ■•  Slubber— s\\^\\\.,  neglect. 

*  Yourmind  of  love. — 'Your  mind  of  love,'  in  the  phraseology  of  the  time,  is  equivalent  to  your  loving  mind. — 
Halhwell. 

*  Embraced  lieavineiix. — The  heaviness  which  he  indulges,  and  is  found  of. — Edwakds. 
'  I  fear  you — I  fear  for  you.     So  in  "  Richard  III:"' 

'•The  king  is  sickly,  weak,  and  melancholy, 
And  his  physicians/'ea/"  him  mightily."' 

8  Scylla  *  *  *  Charybdis. — It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  these  names  were  applied,  by  the  ancients,  to  the 
rocky  shores  of  the  strait  that  separates  Sicily  from  Italy,  the  passage  of  which  was  greatly  dreaded  by  mariners. 


30 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


Enter  Lorenzo. 

Lor.  I  shall  grow  jealous  of  you,  sliortly, 
Laiincelot,  if  you  tlius  get  my  wife  into  corners. 

Je-5.  2Say,  you  need  not  fear  us,  Lorenzo : 
Launcelot  and  I  are  out.  He  tells  me  flath-, 
there  is  no  mercy  for  me  in  Heaven,  because  I 
am  a  Jew's  daughter;  and  he  say.s,  you  are  no 
good  member  of  the  commonwealth,  for  in  con- 
verting Jews  to  Christians  you  raise  the  price 
of  pork. 

Lor.    T   shall   answer  that   to   the    common- 
wealth.— 
Go  in,  sirrah :  bid  them  prepare  for  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done,  sir;  they  have  all  stom- 
achs. 

Lor.  Goodly  lord,  what  a  wit-snapper  are  j-ou! 
then,  bid  them  prepare  dinner. 

Laun.  That  is  done  too,  sir,  onh-,  cover  is  the 
word. 

JjOr.  Will  you  cover  then,  sir  ? 

Laun.  Not  so,  sir,  neither ;  I  know  my  duty. 

Lor.  Yet  more  quarrelling  with  occasion? 
"Wilt  thou  show  the  wliole  wealth  of  thv  wit  in 
an  instant?  I  pray  thee,  understand  a  plain 
man  in_  his  plain  meaning;  go  to  tliv  fellows, 
bid  them  cover  the  table,  serve  in  the  meat,  and 
we  will  come  in  to  dinner. 

Laun.  For  the  table,  sir,  it  shall  be  serv'd  in ; 
for  the  meat,  sir,  it  shall  be  covered;  for  your 
coming  in  to  dinner,  sir,  whj',  let  it  be  as  humours 
and  conceits  shall  govern.         [Exit  Launcelot. 

Lor.    0,  dear  discretion,  how  his  words  are 
suited!' 
The  fool  hath  planted  in  his  memory 
An  arm}^  of  good  words;  and  I  do  know" 
A  many  fools,  that  stand  in  better  place, 
Garnish'd  like  him,  that  for  a  tricksy  word 
Defy  the  matter.  —Let  us  go  to  dinner.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  IV — Venice. — A  Street. 

Enter  Salanio  and  Salarixo. 

Sa'an.  Now,  what  news  on  the  Eialto  ? 

Salar  "Why,  yet  it  lives  there  unchecked,  that 
Antonio  hath  a  ship  of  rich  lading  wreck'd  on 
the  narrow  seas;  the  Goodwins,^  I  think  they 
call  the  place:  a  very  dangerous  flat,  and  fatal, 
where  the  carcases  of  many  a  t.ill  ship  lie  buried, 
as  they  say,  if  my  gossip,  report,  be  an  honest 
woman  of  lier  word. 

Salan.  I  would  she  were  as  lying  a  gossip  in 
that,  as  ever  knapp'd  ginger.''  or  made  her  neigh- 
bours believe  she  wept  for  the  death  of  a  third 
husband.     But  it  is  true,  without  any  slips  of 


proli.\-ity,  or  crossing  the  plain  high-way  of  talk, 
that  the  good  Antonio,  the  hone.st  Antonio, — 
0,  that  I  had  a  title  good  enough  to  keep  his 
name  company! — 

Salar.  Come,  tlic  full  stop. 

Salan.  Ha  ! — what  say'ist  thou  ? — Why,  the 
end  is,  he  hath  lost  a  ship. 

Salar.  I  would  it  might  prove  the  end  of  his 
losses. 

Salan.  Let  me  say  Amen  betimes,  lest  tlie 
Devil  cross  my  prayer:  for  here  lie  comes  in 
the  likeness  of  a  Jew. — How  now,  Shylock  ? 
what  news  among  the  merchants  ? 

Enter  Shylock. 

Shy.  Tou  knew,  none  so  well,  none  so  well 
as  you,  of  my  daughter's  flight. 

Salar.  Thai's  certain :  L  for  my  part,  knew 
the  tailor  that  made  the  wings  she  flew  withal. 

Salan.  .\nd  Shylock,  for  his  own  part,  knew 
the  bird  was  fledg'd ;  and  then,  it  is  the  com- 
plexion of  them  all  to  leave  the  dam. 

Shy.  She  is  damn'd  for  it. 

Salar.  That's  certain,  if  the  Devil  may  be  her 
judge. 

Shy.  Mj-  own  fle-^h  and  blood  to  rebel ! 

Saltr.  But  tell  us,  do  you  hear  whether  An- 
tonio have  had  any  loss  at  sea  or  no  ? 

Shy.  There  I  have  another  bad  match :  a 
bankrupt,  a  prodigal,  who  dare  scarce  show  his 
head  on  the  Eialto : — a  beggar,  that  us'd  to 
come  so  smug  upon  the  mart. — Let  him  look  to 
his  bond:  he  was  wont  to  call  nie  usurer; — let 
him  look  to  his  bond:  he  was  wont  to  lend 
money  for  a  Christian  courtesy; — let  him  look 
to  his  bond. 

Salar.  Why,  I  am  sure,  if  he  forfeit,  thou  wilt 
not  take  his  flesh :  what's  that  good  for  ? 

Shy.  To  bait  fish  withal:  if  it  will  feed  noth- 
ing else,  it  will  feed  my  revenge  He  hath  dis- 
grac'd  me,  and  hinder'd  me  half  a  million ; 
laugh'd  at  my  losses,  mock'd  at  my  gains, 
scorned  my  nation,  thwarted  my  bargains, 
cooled  my  friends,  heated  mine  enemies;  and 
what's  his  reason  ?  I  am  a  Jew.  Hath  not 
a  Jew  eyes  ?  hath  not  a  Jew  hands,  organs, 
dimensions,  senses,  aiTections,  passions  ?  fed 
with  the  same  food,  liurt  with  the  same  weap- 
ons, subject  to  the  same  diseases,  healed  by  the 
same  means,  warmed  and  cooled  by  the  same 
Winter  and  Summer,  as  a  Christian  is?  If  j'ou 
prick  us.  do  we  not  bleed  ?  if  you  tickle  us,  do 
we  not  laugh  ?  if  j'ou  poison  us,  do  we  not  die  ? 
and  if  3-ou  wrong  us,  shall  we  not  revenge  ?  If 
we  are  like  you  in  the  rest,  we  will  resemble 
you  in  that.     If  a  Jew  wrong  a  Christian,  what 


'  Suited. — Suited  means  united  to  each  ofher,  arranircd.— Coswei.l. 

2  And  I  do  know,  &o.— Probably  an  allusion  to  the  h.ibit  of  wit-snapping,  the  constant  straining,'  to  speak  out  of 
the  common  way,  which  then  filled  the  highest  places  of  learning  and  of  the  State.— HuDSo.v. 

3  The  Good icin.i.— The  popular  notion  of  the  Goodwin  Sand  was,  not  only  that  it  was  '-a  very  dangerous  flat 
and  fat.ll,"  but  that  it  possessed  a  "voracious  and  ingurgitating  property;  so  that,  should  a  ship  of  the  largest  size 
strike  on  it,  in  a  few  days  it  would  be  so  wholly  swallowed  up  by  these  quick  sands,  that  no  part  of  it  would  be  left 
to  be  seen." — Knioiit. 

*  Jinajyfd  gi7iffer.—'Ki\ap'  is  plainly  the  same  word  as  'snap':    •• he  hath  broken  the  bowe,  he  hath 

knapped  the  spear  in  sonder,  and  brent  tiie  charrets  in  the  fyre."— (Psalm  xlv.     Miles  Coverd.ile"s  translation,  15-35.) 
As  ginger  itself  is  a  tough  root,  a  ginger  cuke  must  be  meant,  and  i)robutily  the  sort  called  even  now,  'ginger  snap.' 

— WUITE. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


31 


is  his  humility?  revenc^^e.  If  a  Christian  wron;5 
a  Jew,  -what  should  his  sufiferance  he  by  Chris- 
tian example  ?  why,  revenge.  The  villainy  you 
teach  me,  I  will  execute ;  and  it  shall  go  hard 
but  I  will  better  the  instruction. 

Salan.  Here  comes  another  of  the  tribe :  a 
third  cannot  be  match'd,  unless  the  Devil  him- 
self turn  Jew.     [Exeunt  Salanio  and  Salarixo. 

Enter  Tubal. 

SJnj.  How  now,  T\ibal,  what  news  from 
Genoa?  hast  thou  found  my  daii^-'hter  ? 

Tubal.  I  often  came  where  I  did  hear  of  her, 
but  cannot  find  her. 

Shy.  Why,  there!  there,  there,  there  I  a  dia- 
mond gone,  cost  me  two  thousand  ducats  in 
Frankfort.  The  curse  never  fell  upon  our  na- 
tion till  now: — I  never  felt  it  till  now: — two 
thousand  ducats  in  that:  and  other  precious, 
precious  jewels. — I  would,  my  daughter  were 
dead  at  my  foot,  and  the  jewels  in  her  car  1 
would  she  were  hears'd  at  my  foot,  and  the 
ducats  in  her  coffin  !  Xo  news  of  them  ? — Why, 
so ; — and  I  know  not  what's  spent  in  the  search  : 
Why  tlien — loss  upon  loss  !  tiio  thief  gone  with 
so  much,  and  so  much,  to  find  the  thief  and  no 
satisfaction,  no  revenge;  nor  no  ill  luck  stirring, 
but  what  liglits  o'  my  shoulders  ;  no  sighs,  but 
o'  my  breathing;   no  tears,  but  o'  my  shedding. 

Tub.  Yes,  other  men  have  ill  luck  too ;  Anto- 
nio, as  I  heard  in  Genoa. — 

Shy.  What,  what,  what  ?  ill  luck,  ill  luck  ? 


Tub  — hath  an  argosy  cast  away,  coming 
from  Tripoli  s. 

Shy.  I  thank  God!  I  thank  God!  Is  it  true? 
is  it  true  ? 

Tub.  I  spoke  with  some  of  the  sailors  that 
escaped  the  wreck. 

Shy.  I  thank  thee,  good  Tubal. — Good  news, 
good  news!  ha!  ha  I — Where?  in  Genoa? 

Tub.  Your  daughter  spent  in  Genoa,  as  I 
heard,  one  night,  fourscore  ducats. 

Shy.  Thou  stick'st  a  dagger  in  me.  I  shall 
never  see  rr.y  gold  again.  Fourscore  ducats  at 
a  sitting!   foLirscore  ducats! 

Tub.  There  came  divers  of  Antonio's  creditors 
in  my  company  to  Venice,  that  swear  he  cannot 
choose  but  break. 

Shy.  I  am  very  glad  of  it.  I'll  plague  him ; 
I'll  torture  him:    I  am  glad  of  it. 

Tub.  One  of  ihem  showed  me  a  ring,  that  he 
had  of  j'our  daughter  for  a  monkey. 

Shy.  Out  upon  her!  Thou  torturest  me, 
j  Tubal;  it  was  my  turquoise:'  I  had  it  of  Leah, 
when  I  was  a  bachelor:  I  would  not  have  given 
it  for  a  wilderness  of  moukies." 

Tub.  But  Antonio  is  certainly  undone. 

Shy.  Nay,  that's  true,  that's  very  true:  Go, 
Tubal,  fee  me  an  officer;  bespeak  him  a  fortnight 
before.  I  will  have  the  heart  of  him  if  he  for- 
feit; for  were  he  out  of  Venice,  I  can  make 
what  merchandize  I  will.  Go,  Tubal,  and  meet 
me  at  our  synagogue:  go,  good  Tubal;  at  our 
synagogue.  Tubal.  [Exeunt. 


1  Turquoise. — .\.  turquoise  is  a  precious  stone,  found  in  the  veins  of  the  mountains  on  the  confines  of  Persi.i,  to 
the  east,  subject  to  the  Tartars. — Steevkns. 

The  turquoise  is,  in  Itself,  a  jewel  of  no  very  5rrc.1t  value.     Shylock  tre.isnred  it  as  a  maiden  gift  from  his  dead 
wife,  Leah.     Steevens  mentions  many  superstitious  qualities  imputed  to  this  stone. 

2  A  icilr/erness  of  moiiketjs. — What  a  floe  Hebraism  is  implied  in  this  expression. — IIazlitt. 


32 


THE   MERCHAXT   OF  VEXICE. 


ACT    IV. 


ScEN'E  I. — Belmont. — An  Apartment  in  Portia's 
House. 

Bassanio,  Portia,  Gratiano,  Nerissa.  and  their 
Attendants,  discovered.     The  Caskets  are  set  out. 

For.  I  pray  you  tarrj' :  pause  a  day  or  two, 
Before  you  liazard ;  for,  in  choosing  wrong, 
I  lose  your  company:  therefore,  forbear  a  while. 
There's  something  tells  me.  (but  it  is  not  love,) 
I  would  not  lose  you ;  and  you  know  yourself 
Hate  counsels  not  in  such  a  quality. 
But  lest  you  should  not  understand  me  well. 
(And  yet  a  maiden  hath  no  tongue  but  thought.) 
I  would  detain  you  here  some  month  or  two, 
Before  you  venture  for  me.     I  could  teach  you 
How  to  choose  right,  but  then  I  am  forsworn; 
So  will  I  never  be:  so  may  vou  miss  me : 
But  if  you  do,  you'll  make  me  wish  a  sin. — 
That  I  had  been  forsworn. — 
T  speak  too  long;  but  'tis  to peize'  the  time, 
To  eke  it,  and  to  draw  it  out  in  length, 
To  stay  you  from  election. 

Bass.  Let  me  choose  ; 

For.  as  I  am.  I  live  upon  the  rack. 

For.  Upon  the  rack,  Bassanio  ?  then  confess 
T\'liat  treason  there  is  mingled  with  your  love. 

Bass.  Xoue,  but  that  ugly  treason  of  mistrust, 
Whicli  makes  me  fear  th'  enjoying  of  my  love. 
There  may  as  well  be  amity  and  life 
'Tween  snow  and  fire,  as  treason  and  my  love. 
But  let  me  to  my  fortune  and  the  caskets. 

For.  Away  then.     I  am  lock'd  in  one  of  them : 

If  you  do  love  me,  you  will  find  me  out 

Nerissa,  and  the  rest,  stand  all  aloof — 

Let  music  sound,  while  he  doth  make  his  choice; 

Then,  if  he  lose,  he  makes  a  swan-like  end,' 

Fading  in  music:  that  the  comparison 

May  stand   more  proper,  my  ej-e  shall  be  the 

stream. 
And  watery  death-bed  for  him.     Now  he  goes, 
With  no  less  presence,'  but  with  much  more  love. 
Than  young  Alcides,  when  he  did  redeem 
The  virgin  tribute  paid  by  howling  Troy 
To  the  sea-monster:  I  stand  for  sacrifice: 
The  rest  aloof  are  the  Dardanian  wives, 


With  bleared  visages,  come  forth  to  view 
The  issue  of  th'  exploit.     Go,  Hercules  I 
Live  thou,  I  live. — "With  much  more  dismay 
I  view  the  fight,  than  thou  that  mak'st  the  fray. 

A  Song,  whilst  Bassan'io  comments  on  the  caskets 
to  himself. 

SONG. 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy*  bred. 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
B'-ply,  reply. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes. 
With  gazing  fed ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  ivhere  it  lies. 
L-t  Its  all  ring  fancy's  knell ; 
I'll  begin  it. — Ding,  dong,  hell. 
All.  Ding,  dong,  bell. 

Bass.  So  may  the  outward  shows^  be  least 

themselves: 
The  world  is  still  deceiv'd  with  ornament. 
In  law.  what  plea  so  tainted  and  corrupt, 
But,  being  season'd  with  a  gracious"  voice, 
Obscures  the  show  of  evil?     la  religion, 
What  damned  error,  but  some  sober  brow 
Will  bless  it,  and  approve  it  with  a  text. 
Hiding  the  grossness  with  fair  ornament? 
There  is  no  vice  so  simple,  but  assumes 
Some  mark  of  virtue  on  his  outward  parts. 
Thus  ornament  is  but  the  guiled'  shore 
To  a  most  dangerous  sea,  the  beauteous  scarf 
Veiling  an  Indian  beauty: — in  a  word, 
The  seeming  truth  which  cunning  times  put  on 
To  entrap  the  wisest.     Therefore,  thou  gaudy 

gold. 
Hard  food  for  Midas,  I  will  none  of  thee. 
Nor  none  of  thee,  thou  pale  and  common  drudge 
'Tween  man  and  man :  but  thou,  thou  meagre 

lead 
Which    rather   tlireat'nest    than    dost    promise 

aught. 
Thy  plainness  moves  me  more  than  eloquence ; 
And  here  choose  I.     Joy  be  the  consequence  I 


1  Peise. — To peize,  is  to  weigh,  or  balance;  and  fisruratively,  to  keep  in  suspense,  to  delay. — Henley. 
"  A  nican-like  end. — Alluding  to  the  opinion  which  lone;  prevailed,  that  the  swan  uttered  a  jihiintive  musical 
sound  at  the  approach  of  death.     There  is  something  so  touching  in  this  superstition  that  one  feels  loth  to  be 
undeceived. — TIuDsox. 

3  Witk  no  less  presence — with  the  same  dignity  of  mien. — Johnsox. 

yow  he  goes. 
With  no  less  presence,  &c. 

Laomedon,  the  founder  of  Troy,  hired  Neptune  to  build  the  walls,  and  Apollo,  meantime,  to  keep  bis  flocks  on 
Mount  Id.x  The  gods  having  finished  their  tasks,  Laomedon  refuses  their  wages.  Neptune,  enraged,  sends  a  sea- 
monster  to  ravage  the  country  about  Troy.  The  Trojans,  by  commami  of  an  oracle,  sacrifice  from  time  to  time  a 
maiden  to  the  monster,  to  appease  him  and  his  offended  master.  Among  others,  Hesione.  daughter  of  Laomedon, 
is  selected  by  lot  for  this  purpose.  But  at  this  time  Hercules,  or  Alcides  (the  patronymic),  returning  from  his 
expedition  against  the  Amazons,  slays  the  mon.ster  and  rescues  the  maiden.  Such  is  the  myth  to  which  the  poet 
alludes. 

^  Fancy. — The  poet,  in  common  with  other  writers  of  the  time,  often  nsos  fancy  for  lore  — IltiDsox. 

5  So  may  the  outward  shores.  itc.^Bassanio  has  made  up  his  mind  whilst  the  music  has  proceeded,  and  then 
follows  out  the  course  of  his  thoughts  in  words. — K.n'Ight. 

«  Gracious — pleasing.  '  Guiled— deceiving. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


For.  How  all  the  other  passions  fleet  to  air, 
As  doubtful  thoughts,  and  rash-embrac'd  despair, 
And  shuddering  fear  and  green-ey'd  jealousy. 

0  love  !   be  moderate ;  allay  thy  ecstasy ; 

In  measui'e  rain  thy  joy;'  scant  this  excess- 

1  feel  too  ranch  thy  blessing ;  make  it  les^, 
For  fear  I  surfeit  1 

Bass.  "What  find  There? 

[^Opening  the  leaden  c-iskct. 
Fair  Portia's  counterfeit  !^     What  derai-god 
Hath  come  so  near  creation?    ilove  these  eyes? 
Or  whether,  riding  on  tlio  balls  of  mine, 
Seem  they  in  motion?    Here  are  sever'd  lips, 
Parted  with  sugar  breath ;  so  sweet  a  bar 
Should  sunder  sucli   sweet   friends.     Here,  in 

her  hairs. 
The  painter  plays  the  spider,  and  hath  woven 
A  golden  mesh  t'  entrap  the  hearts  of  men. 
Faster  than  gnats  in  cobwebs  ;   but  her  eyes! — 
How  could  he  see  to  do  them  ?  having  made  one, 
Methinks.  it  should  have  power  to  steal  both  his, 
And  leave  itself  unfurnish'd."  yet  look,  how  far 
The   substance  of  my  praise   doth  wrong  this 

shadow 
In  underprizing  it,  so  far  this  shadow 
Doth  limp   behind  the   substance. — Here's   the 

scroll, 
The  continent  and  summary  of  my  fortune. 

"  You  that  choose  not  by  Ihe  view. 
Chavce  as  fair,  and  choose  as  true! 


Since  this  fortune  falls  to  you, 
Be  content  and  >ei-k  no  new. 
If  you  he  ludl  pleas' d  with  fhi'', 
And  hold  ij our  fortune  for  your  bliis, 
Tarn  you  vjhere  your  lady  is. 
And  claim  her  ivith  a  loving  kiss.''' 

A  gentle  scroll. — Fair  VmXj,  by  your  leave  ; 
I  come  by  note,  to  give,  and  to  receive. 

[^Kissing  he7: 
Like  one  of  two  contending  in  a  prize. 
That  thinks  he  hath  done  well  in  people's  eyes. 
Hearing  applause,  and  universal  shout, 
Giddy  in  spirit,  still  gazing,  in  a  doubt 
Whether  those  peals  of  praise  be  his  or  no; 
So,  thrice  fitir  lady,  stand  I,  even  so, 
As  doubtful  whetlier  what  I  see  be  true, 
Until  confirm'd,  sign'd,  ratified  by  you. 

For.    You    see  me,    lord   Bassanio,  where  I 

stand, 
Such  as  I  am:  though,  for  myself  alone, 
I  would  not  be  ambitions  in  my  wish. 
To  wish  myself  much  better;  yet  for  j'ou 
I  would  be  trebled  twenty  times  myself, 
A  thousand  times  more  fair,  ten  thousand  times 

more  rich. 
That  only  to  stand  high  in  your  account, 
I  might  in  virtues,  beauties,  livings,  friends. 
Exceed  account :  but  the  full  sum  of  me 
Is  sum  of  nothing;  which,  to  term  in  gross, 
Is  an  unlesson'd  girl,  unschool'd,  unpractis'd : 


•  liai7i  thijjoij. — I  bcliove  .Sliakespo.iro  .illiuloil  tn  the  well  known  proverb,  it  cannot  rain,  hut  it  jiour.'^. — 
Steevens. 

-  Counterfeit — likcnes.s.  Hamlet  c.iUs  the  pictures  of  his  father  ami  iinele  "the  eoiinterfeit  presentment  of 
two  brothers." 

3  UnfurniHlCd — incomplete,  not  furnished  with  its  companion  or  fellow  eye. — M.  Masox. 

3 


34 


THE  MERCHANT  OF  VENICE. 


Happy  in  tliis,  slie  is  not  jet  so  old 
But  she  may  learn ;  happier  than  this, 
She  is  not  bred  so  dull  but  she  can  learn; 
Happiest  of  ah  in  that  her  gentle  sphit 
Commits  itself"  to  yours  to  be  directed, 
As  from  her  lord,  her  governor,  her  king. 

Bass.   Madam,    you    have    bereft    me    of  all 
words. 

Aer.  My  lord  and  lady,  it  is  now  our  time, 
That  have  stood  by,  and  seen  our  wishes  pros- 
per, 
To  cry,  good  joy.     Good  joy.  my  lord,  and  lady  1 

Gra.  My  lord  Bassanio,  and  my  gentle  lady, 
I  wish  you  all  the  joy  that  you  can  wish  ; 
For,  I  am  sure,  you  can  wish  none  from  me :' 
And,  when  your  honours  mean  to  solemnize 
The  bargain  of  your  faith,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Even  at  ihat  time  I  may  be  married  too. 

Bass.  "With  all  my  heart,  BO  thou  canst  get  a 
wile. 

Gra.  I  thank  your  lordship,  you  have  got  mo 
one. 
My  eyes,  my  lord,  can  look  as  swift  as  yours  • 
You  saw  the  mistress,  I  beheld  the  maid  f 
You  lov'd,  T  lov'd ;  for  mterraission^ 
No  more  pertains  to  me,  my  lord,  than  j'ou. 
Your  fortune  stood  upon  the  caskets  there, 
And  so  did  mine,  too,  as  the  matter  falls ; 
For  wooing  here,  until  I  sweat  again. 
And  swearing,  till  my  very  roof  was  dry 
"With  oaths  of  love,  at  last,  if  promise  last, 
I  got  a  promise  of  this  fair  one  here. 
To  have  her  love,  provided  that  your  fortune 
Achiev'd  her  mistress. 

For.  Is  this  true,  Nerissa  ? 

Ner.  Madam,  it  is,  so  you  stand  pleas'd  withal. 

Bass.  And  do  you,  Gratiano,  mean  good  faith? 

Gra.  Yes,  'faith,  my  lord. 

Bass.  Our  feast  shall  be  much  honour'd  in 
your  marriage. 

Gra.  But  who  comes  here  ?  Lorenzo,  and  his 
infidel  ? 
"What!   and  my  old  Venetian  friend,  Salerio? 

Enter  Lokenzo,  Jkssica,  and  Salerio. 

Bass.  Lorenzo,  and  Palerio,  welcome  hither. 
If  that  the  j-outh  of  my  new  interest  here 
Have   power   to   bid  you   welcome. — By  your 

leave 
I  bid  my  very  friends  and  countrymen. 
Sweet  Portia,  welcome. 

For  So  do  I,  my  lord : 

They  are  entirely  welcome. 

Lor.  I  thank  your  honour. — For  my  part,  my 
lord. 
My  purpose  was  not  to  have  seen  j-ou  here  ; 
But  meeting  with  Salerio  by  the  way 


ITe  did  entreat  mc,  past  all  saying  nay. 
To  come  with  him  along. 

Sul.rio.  I  did,  mj  lord, 

And  I  have  reason  for  it.     Siguier  Antonio 
Commends  him  to  j-ou.  [Gives  Bassanio  a  letter. 

Ba\s  Ere  I  ope  his  letter, 

I  pray  you,  tell  me  how  my  good  friend  doth. 

t^ale.  Not  sick,  my  lord,  unless  it  be  in  mind; 
Nor  well,  unless  in  mind ;  his  letter,  there, 
Will  show  you  his  estate. 

Gra.  Nerissa,  cheer  yon  stranger ;    bid  her 

welcome. 
Your  hand,    Salerio:    what's   the   news   from 

Venice  ? 
How  doth  that  royal  merchant,  good  Antonio  ? 
T  know,  he  will  be  glad  of  our  success ; 
"We  are  the  Jasons,  we  have  won  the  fleece. 
Sale.  I  would  you  had  won  the  fleece  that  he 

hath  lost  I 
For.  There  are  some  shrewd*  contents  in  yon 

same  paper, 
That  steal  the  colour  from  Bassanio's  cheek : 
Some  dear  friend  dead ;    else  nothing  in  the 

world 
Could  turn  so  much  the  constitution 
Of    any    constant    man.       "What,    worse    and 

worse  ? — 
"With  leave,  Bassanio;  I  am  half  yourself. 
And  I  must  freely  have  the  half  of  any  thing 
That  this  same  paper  brings  you. 

^0-95.  0  sweet  Portia  I 

Here  are  a  kw  of  the  unpleasant' st  words 
That  ever  blotted  paper.     (Jentle  ladj^, 
When  I  did  first  impart  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you  all  the  wealth  I  had 
Ran  in  my  veins — I  was  a  gentleman: 
And  then  I  told  j'ou  true ;  and  yet,  dear  lady. 
Rating  myself  at  nothing,  you  shall  see 
How  much  I  was  a  braggart.    When  I  told  you 
My  state  was  nothing,  I  should  then  have  told 

you 
That  I  was  worse  than  nothing;  for,  indeed, 
I  have  engag'd  myself  to  a  dear  friend, 
Engag'd  my  friend  to  his  mere  enemy. 
To  feed  my  means.     Here  is  a  letter,  lady; 
The  paper  as  the  body^  of  my  friend, 
And  every  word  in  it  a  gaping  wound. 
Issuing  life-blood. — But  is  it  true,  Salerio? 
Have  all  his  ventures  fail'd?  What,  not  one  hit? 
From  Tripolis,  from  Mexico,  and  England, 
From  Lisbon,  Barbary,  and  India, 
And  not  one  vessel  'scape  the  dreadful  touch 
Of  merchant-marring  rocks  ? 

Sale.  Not  one,  my  lord. 

Besides,  it  should  appear,  that  if  ho  had 
The  present  money  to  discharge  the  Jew, 
He  would  not  take  it.     Never  did  I  know 
A  creature,  that  did  bear  the  shape  of  man, 


•  Yoii  can  wisli  none  from  me. — That  is,  none  away  from  inc;  none  that  I  shall  lose,  if  j-ou  gain  it. — Joiixso.v. 
2  The  maid. — Nerissa  was  no  servant-maiil,  according  to  modern  notions,  but  an  attend.int  friend,  as  well 

born  and  bred,  perhaps,  though  not  as  wealthy,  as  Portia  herself.  Sucli  a  relation  was  common  of  old.  It  existed 
between  Gratiano  and  Bassanio,  whose  intercourse  is  that  of  equals,  and  the  former  of  whom  is  evidently  a  gentle- 
man in  every  sense  of  the  word.  Bassanio  says  to  him  and  Nerissa,  "Our  feast  shall  be  much  honour\l  in  your 
marriage." — TV  ihte. 

'  Intermission — pause,  delay.  *  Shreicd — cutting,  harrowing. 

*  Tlie  paper  as  the  body. — The  expression  is  somewhat  elliptical.     '"The  paper  as  the  body,"  means, — the 
paper  resenablee  the  body,  is  as  the  body. — Steevens. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


85 


So  keen  and  p:reecly  to  confound  a  man. 
He  plies  the  Duke  at  mornins;,  and  at  night, 
And  dolli  impeach  the  freedom  of  the  State, 
If  they  deny  him  justice.     Twenty  merchants, 
The  Duke  himseh',  and  the  magnilicoes 
Of  greatest  port,  have  all  persuaded  with  him; 
But  none  can  drive  him  from  the  envious  plea 
Of  forfeiture,  of  justice,  and  his  bond. 

For.  Is  it  your  dear  friend  that  is  thus  in 
trouble  ? 

Bass.  The  dearest  friend  to  me,  the  kindest 
man. 
The  best  condition'd  and  unwearied  spirit 
In  doing  courtesies;  and  one  in  whom 
The  ancient  Roman  honour  more  appears 
Than  any  that  draws  breath  in  Italy. 

For.  What  sum  owes  he  tlie  Jew  ? 

Bass.  For  me,  three  thousand  ducats. 

For.  What,  no  more  ? 

Pay  him  six  thousand,  and  deface  the  bond  : 
Double  six  thousand,  and  then  treble  that,' 
Before  a  friend  of  this  description 
Shall  lose  a  hair  throng] i  Bassanio's  fault. 
First  go  with  me  to  church,  and  call  me  wife, 
And  tiien  away  to  Yenice  to  your  friend; 
For  never  shall  you  lie  by  Portia's  side 
With  an  unquiet  soul.     You  shall  have  gold 
To  pay  the  petty  debt  twenty  times  over. 
My  maid  Xerissa  and  myself,  mean  time, 
Will  live  as  maids  and  widows.     Come,  awa}'! 
For  you  shall  hence  upon  your  wedding-day. 
Bid  your  friends  welcome,  show  a  merry  cheer ;° 
Since   you   are    dear  bought,   I   will  love  3-ou 

dear, — 
But  let  me  hear  the  letter  of  your  friend. 

Bass.  [Reads.]  ^' Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  have 
all  miscarried,  mrj  creditors  grow  cruel,  my  estate 
is  very  low,  my  hand  to  the  Jew  is  forfeit;  and 
since,  in  j)aying  it,  it  is  impossible  I  should  lire, 
all  djbts  are  clear  d  bstween  you  and  I,  if  I  might 
but  see  you  at  my  death.^  Notw HI i standing,  use 
your  pleamre :  if  your  love  do  notjyersuade  you  to 
come,  ht  not  my  letter.'''' 

For.  0  love!   despatch  all  business,  and  be- 
gone. 
Bass.  Since  I  have   your  good  leave  to  go 
awa}', 
I  will  make  haste;  but  till  I  come  again. 
No  bed  shall  e'er  be  guilty  of  my  stay. 
No  rest  be  interposer  'twixt  tis  twain. 

[^Exeunt. 


Scene   II. — The  Same. — A  Room  in  Portia's 
Hou.se. 

Enter  Porti.\,  Neiiiss.4.,  Lorenzo,  Jessica,  and 

BALTIIAZ.A.R. 

■  Lor.  Madam,    although   I   speak   it   in   your 

presence. 
You  liave  a  noble  and  a  true  conceit 
Of  god-like  amity ;    which  appears  most  strongly 
In  bearing  thus  the  absence  of  j-our  lord. 
But,  if  you  knev.'  to  whom  you  show  tiiis  honour. 
How  true  a  gentleman  you  send  relief, 
How  dear  a  lover*  of  my  lord  your  liusband, 
I  know  you  would  be  prouder  of  the  work. 
Than  customary  bonnt}-  can  enforce  3"ou. 

For.  I  never  did  repent  for  doing  good, 
Nor  shall  not  now. 

This  comes  too  near  the  praising  of  myself; 
Therefore,  no  more  of  it.   hear  other  things. — 
Lorenzo,  I  commit  into  your  hands 
The  husbandry  and  manage  of  my  house. 
Until  my  lord's  return:  for  mine  own  part, 
I  have  toward  Heaven  Ijreath'd  a  secret  vow 
To  live  in  prayer  and  contemplation, 
Only  attended  by  Nerissa  here. 
Until  her  husband  and  my  lord's  return. 
Tliere  is  a  monastery  two  miles  off. 
And  there  we  will  abide.     I  do  desire  you 
Not  to  deny  this  imposition. 
The  which  my  love,  and  some  necessity. 
Now  lays  upon  you. 

Lor.  Madam,  with  all  my  heart: 

I  shall  obej'  you  in  all  fair  commands. 

For.  My  people  do  already  know  my  mind, 
And  will  acknowledge  you  and  Jessica 
In  place  of  Lord  Bassanio  and  myself. 
So  fare  you  well,  till  we  shall  meet  again. 

Lor.  Fair  thoughts,  and  happy  hours,  attend 
on  you ! 

Jes.  I  wish  your  ladyship  all  heart's  content. 

For.  I  thank  j^oti  for  your  wish,  and  am  well 
pleas 'd 
To  wish  it  back  on  you:  fare  j-ou  well,  Jessica. — 
[E.munt  Jessica  and  Lorenzo. 
Now,  Balthazar, 

As  I  have  ever  found  thee  honest,  true. 
So  let  me  find  thee  stilL     Take  this  same  letter. 
And  use  thou  all  the  endeavour  of  a  man, 
In  speed  to  Padua :   see  thou  render  tliis 
Into  ray  cousin's  hand.  Doctor  Bellario : 
And,  look,  what  notes  and  garments  he  doth 
give  thee, 


'  And  then  treble  that.  Hcylin,  1G31,  says  that  the  ducat  was  worth  Cs.  Srf.  sterling;  so  that  Portia's  offer  of 
thirty-six  thousand  ducats  placed  about  $55,000,  or,  according  to  the  present  value  of  money,  $385,000,  at  Bassanio's 
disposal. — White. 

^  A  merry  cheer — a  merry  countenance. 

'  All  debts  are  cleared  between  you  <ind  I,  if  I  might  but  ^ee  you  at  my  death. — Mr.  Charles  Kemble,  as  stated 
by  Ilnrness,  objects  to  the  nomiiiou  punctuation  of  this  passage.  He  would  have  a  period  after  "you  and  l,"'  and 
make  the  following  clause,  '"if  I  might  but  see  you  at  my  deatlV  an  independent  senience.  The  reason  given  for 
tlic  proposed  change  is,  that  the  present  punctuation  implies  a  want  of  generosity  on  Antonio's  part,  in  seeming  to 
make  his  seeing  Bassanio  a  condition  of  liis  forgiving  him  his  debt.  The  passage,  however,  "If  I  might  but  see 
y  (ui,"  etc.,  does  not  appear  to  be  added  as  a  j)ositive  condition  of  pardon,  but  as  an  after-thought,  in  a  vein  of  mourn- 
ful pleasantry  and  graceful  compliment.  If  this  passage  were  made  an  independent  sentence,  e.vprcssive  of  an 
earnest  wish  to  see  Bassanio,  it  might  be  taken  as  a  covert  way  of  stimulating  Bassanio  to  the  payment  of  the  debt, 
and  thus  the  exquisite  tenderness  and  dignity  of  the  whole  letter  would  be  much  impaired. 

*  Lover. — In  our  author's  time  this  term  was  applied  to  those  of  the  same  sex  who  had  an  esteem  for  each 
other. — Maloxe. 


THE   MERCIIAXT   OF  AT^NIOE. 


Bring  them.  I  pray  tlieo,  with  imagin'd  speed' 
Unto  the  Trauect,"  to  tlie  common  ferry 
Which   trades  to  Venice.     Waste   no   time  in 

words. 
But  get  thee  gone :  I  shall  be  there  before  thee. 

Balth.  Madam,  I  go  with  all  convenient  speed. 

[Exit. 

For.  Come  on.  Xerissa-  I  have  work  in  iiand 
That  you  yet  know  not  of.     We'll  see  our  hus- 
bands, 
Before  they  think  of  us. 

Xer.  S^hall  they  SCO  us? 

For.  They  shall,  Xerissa  ;   but  in  such  a  habit, 
That  they  shall  tiiink  we  are  accomplished 
Witii  that  we  lack.     I'll  hold  thee  any  wager, 
When  we  are  both  accoutred  like  young  men, 
I'll  prove  the  prettier  fellow  of  the  two. 
And  wear  my  dagger  with  the  braver  grace  : 
And  speak  between  the  change  of  man  and  boy, 
With  a  reed  voice  ;  and  turn  two  mincing  steps 
Into  a  matdy  stride ;  and  speak  of  frays, 
Like  a  fine  bragging  youth ;  and  tell  quaint  lies. 
How  honourable  ladies  sought  my  love, 
Which  I  denying,  they  fell  sick  and  died ; 
I  could  not  do  withal:^ — then,  I'll  repent, 
And  wish,  for  all  that,  that  I  had  not  kill'd  them. 
And  twenty  of  these  puny  lies  I'll  tell, 
That  men  shall  swear,  I  jiave  discontinued  school 
Above  a  twelvemonth.     I  have  within  my  mind 
A  thousand  raw  tricks  of  tl:ese  bragging  Jacks, 
Which  I  will  practise. 

But  come:  I'll  tell  thee  all  my  whole  device 
Wlien  I  am  in  my  coach,  which  staj's  for  us 
At  the  Park  gate ;  and  therefore  haste  away, 
For  we  must  measure  twenty  miles  to-day. 

[Exeunt. 


ScEXE  III. — Venice. — A  Street. 
Enter  Shylock,  Salaxio,  Antoxio,  and  Gaoler. 

Shy.  Gaoler,   look   to   him:    tell  not  me  of 
mercy. — 
This  is  the  fool  tliat  lends  out  money  gratis. — 
Gaoler,  look  to  him. 

Ant.  Hear  me  yet,  good  Sliylock. 

Shy.  I'll  have  my  bond;  speak  not  against 
my  bond: 
I  have  sworn  an  oatli  that  I  will  have  my  bond. 
Thou  call'dst  me  dog  before  tliou  hadst  a  cause, 
But,  since  I  am  a  dog,  beware  my  fangs. 
The  r)uke  sliall  grant  mo  justice. — I  do  wonder, 
Thou  naughty  gaoler,  that  thou  art  so  fond* 
To  come  abroad  with  him  at  his  request. 

Ant.  I  pray  thee,  hear  me  speak. 

Shy.  I'll  have  my  bond ;  I  will  not  hear  thee 
speak : 
I'll  have  my  bond,  and  therefore  speak  no  more. 
I'll  not  be  made  a  soft  and  dull-ey'd  fool. 
To  shake  the  head,  relent,  and  sigh,  and  yield 
To  Christian  intercessors.     Follow  not; 
I'll  have  no  speaking:  I  will  have  my  bond. 

[Exit  ShylocIv. 

Salan.  It  is  the  most  impenetrable  cur. 
That  ever  kept  with  men. 

Ant.  Let  him  alone: 

I'll  follow  him  no  more  with  bootless  prayers. 
These  griefs  and  losses  have  so  'bated  me, 
That  I  shall  hardly  spare  a  pound  of  fiesh 
To-morrow  to  my  bloody  creditf)r. — 
Well,  Gaoler,  on. — Pray  God,  Bassanio  come 
To  see  me  pay  his  debt;  and  then  I  care  not. 

[Exeunt. 


ACT    Y 


Scene  I. — Venice. — A  Court  of  Justice. 

The  Duke,  the  Magnificoes,  Axtoxio,Bassaxio, 
Gratiaxo,  Salarixo.  Salaxio,  and  others,  dis- 
covered. 

Duke.  What,  is  Antonio  here  ? 

Ant.  Ready,  so  please  your  Grace. 

Fake.  I  am  sorry  for  thee :  thou  art  come  to 
answer 
A  stony  adversary,  an  inhuman  wretch 
Uncapable  of  pity,  void  and  empty 
From  an}'  dram  of  mercy. 

Ant.  I  have  heard. 

Your  Grace  hath  ta'en  great  pains  to  qualify 
His  rigorous  course ;   but  since  he  stands  ob- 
durate. 
And  that  no  lawful  means  can  carrv  me 


Out  of  his  envy's^  reach,  I  do  oppose 
M}^  patience  to  his  fury,  and  am  arm'd 
To  suffer  with  a  quietness  of  spirit 
The  very  tyranny  and  rage  of  his. 

Fuke.    Go,    one,    and   call   the  Jew   into   the 

Court. 
Salan.  He's  ready  at  the  door.     He  comes, 

ray  lord. 
Fulce.  Make  room,  and  let  him  stand  before 
our  face. — 

Eater  Shyloce. 

Shylock.  the  world  thinks,  and  I  think  so  too. 
That  thou  1)U.',  lead'st  this  fashion  of  thy  malice 
To  the  last  hour  of  act;   and  then,  'tis  thought, 
Thou'lt  show  thy  mercy,   and  remorse,"  more 
strange. 


^  Wiffi  imrigiii'd  speed — with  colci-ity  like  that  of  imasin.ition. — Steevens. 

^  Trailed. — Shakespeare  most  likely  obtained  this  word  from  some  novel  to  which  he  resorted  for  his  jilot.  It 
is  supposed  to  be  derived  from  the  Italian,  irmntre  (to  draw),  owing  to  the  passase-boat  on  the  Brenta  being  drawn 
over  a  dam  by  a  crane,  at  a  place  about,  five  miles  from  Venice. — Collier. 

3  I  could  not  do  ^citlial — I  could  not  help  it.  ■•  Fojid — foolish. 

*  Envy'H.^Enrtj  is  frequently  used  b_v  Shakespeare  in  the  sense  oC  malice,  hatred. 

*  Jiemorse. — Bemorse,  in  our  author's  time,  generally  siirnified  pit;/,  tendernens. — Maloxk 


THE   ,AIEECIIAXT    OF  VENICE. 


Than  is  thy  stran.'je  apparent  cruelly ; 

And  Avhere'  thou  now  exact'st  the  penalty, 

"Which  is  a  pound  of  this  poor  merchant's  ilesh, 

Thou  wilt  not  only  lose  the  forfeiture, 

But,  touch'd  with  liuman  frentleness  and  love, 

Forgive  a  moiety  of  the  principal; 

Glancing  an  eye  of  pity  on  his  losses. 

That  Jiave  of  late  so  huddled  on  liis  back. 

Enow  to  press  a  royal  merchant"  down, 

And  pluck  commiseration  of  his  state 

From  brassy  bosoms,  and  rough  hearts  of  flint, 

From  stuljborn  Turks  and  Tartars,  never  train'd 

To  offices  of  tender  courtesy. 

"We  all  expect  a  gentle  answer,  Jew. 

Shy.  I  have  possess'd  your  Grace  of  what  I 
purpose; 
And  by  our  holy  Sabbatli  have  I  sworn 
To  liave  the  duo  and  forfeit  of  my  bond. 
If  you  deny  it,  let  the  danger  light 
Upon  your  charter,  and  your  city's  freedom. 
You'll  ask  me,  why  T  rather  choose  to  have 
A  weight  of  carrion  flesli,  than  to  receive 
Three  thousand  ducats  ?     I'll  not  answer  that : 
But,  say,  it  is  my  humour:^  is  ic  answer'd? 
"What  if  my  house  be  troubled  wi'h  a  rat, 
And  I  be  pleas'd  to  give  ten  tliousand  ducats 
To  have  it  baned?*  "What,  are  you  answered  yet? 
Some  men  there  arc  love  not  a  gaping  pig;° 
Soaic,  that  are  mad  if  tliey  behold  a  cat. 
Now,  for  A'our  answer : 
As  there  is  no  firm  reason  to  be  render'd, 
W'hv  he  cannot  abide  a  gaping  pig, 
"Why  he,  a  harmless  necessary  cat. 
So  can  I  give  no  reason,  nor  I  will  not. 
More  than  a  lodg'd  hate,  and  a  certain  loathing, 
I  bear  Antonio,  tliat  I  follow  thus 
A  losing  suit  against  him.     Are  you  an.swer'd? 

Bass.  This  is  no  answer,  thou  unfeeling  man. 
To  excus3  tlie  current  of  thy  cruelty. 

Shy.  I  am  not  bound  to  please  thee  witli  my 
answer. 

Bass.  Bo  all  mea  kill  the  tilings  thev  do  not 
love  ? 

Shy.  Hates  anv  man  the  thing  lie  would  not 
kill  ? 

Ba^s.  ]*]very  offence  is  not  a  hate  at  first. 

Shy.  W^hat !    would'st   thou  have  a  serpent 
sting  thee  twice  ? 

Ant.  I  pray  you,  think  you  question  with  the 
Jew. 
You  may  as  well  go  stand  aipon  tlie  bcacli, 


And  bid  the  main  flood  bate  his  usual  height ; 
You  may  as  well  use  question  with  the  wolf, 
Wh)-  he  hath  made  tl'c  ewe  bleat  for  the  lamb ; 
You  may  as  well  forbid  the  mountain  pines 
To  wag  their  higlt  tops,  and  to  make  no  noise, 
W'hen  they  are  fretten''  with  the  gusts  of  heaven  ; 
You  may  as  Avell  do  anything  most  liard, 
Asseek  to  soften  that  (than  wliicli.  wliat  harder?) 
Ilis  Jewish  lieart. — Tlierefore,  I  do  beseech  you, 
Make  no  more  offers,  use  no  I'urther  means. 
But  with  all  brief  and  plain  conveniency, 
Let  me  have  judgment,  and  the  Jew  his  will. 

B:MSS.  For  thy  three  tliousand  ducats  here  is 
six. 

Shy.  If  every  ducat  in  six  thousand  ducats 
Were  in  six  parts,  and  every  part  a  ducat. 
I  would  not  draw  them:  I  would  have  my  bond. 

Duke.  How  shalt  thou  hope  for  mercy,  ren- 
d'ring  none  ? 

Shy.  What  judgment  shall  I  dread,  doing  no 
wrong  ? 
You  have  among  you  many  a  purchas'd  slave. 
Which,  like  j'our  asses,  aud  your  dogs,  and  mules, 
You  use  in  abject  and  in  slavish  parts. 
Because  you  bought  them : — shall  I  say  to  you, 
Let  them  be  free ; — marry  them  to  yoiu"  heirs ; — 
Why  sweat  they  vmder  burthens  ? — let  their  beds 
Be  made  as  soft  as  j'ours ;  and  let  their  palates 
Be  seasonVl  with  such  viands  ?     You  will  an- 
swer. 
The  slaves  are  ours. — So  do  I  answer  you  : 
The  pound  of  flesh,  which  I  demand  of  him. 
Is  dearly  bought;   'tis  mine,  and  I  will  have  it. 
If  you  deny  me,  fie  upon  your  law ! 
There  is  no  force  in  the  decrees  of  Yenice. 
I  stand  for  judgment;  answer:  shall  I  have  it? 

Diike.  L'pon  my  power  I  may  dismiss  this  Court, 
Unless  Bellario,  a  learned  Doctor, 
Whom  I  have  sent  for  to  determine  this. 
Come  here  to-day. 

Solar.  My  lord,  here  stays  without 

A  messenger  with  letters  from  the  Doctor, 
Xew  come  from  Padua. 

Duk;.   Bring  us  the  letters:  call  the  messen- 
ger. [Exit  a-i  Attendant. 

Biss.   Good   cheer,    Antonio !      What,    man, 
courage  yet ! 
The  Jew  shall  have  my  flesh,  blood,  bones,  and 

all. 
Ere  thou  shalt  lose  for  me  one  drop  of  blood. 

Ant.  I  am  a  tainted  wether  of  the  flock; 


1   W/iere — wberc.is. 

^  A  roi/al  merehiint. — When  the  Frpncli  mu\  Venetians,  in  tlie  besinnins  of  the  tliirtcentli  century,  had  won 
Constantinojile.  the  French,  under  the  Emperor  Henry,  endeavored  to  extenil  their  conquests  into  tlie  i)rovinces 
of  the  Grecian  empire  on  the  terra  jfinna  ;  while  the  Venetians,  who  were  masters  of  the  sea,  gave  liberty  to  any 
subjects  of  the  republic  who  would  fit  out  vessels,  to  make  themselves  masters  of  the  isles  of  the  Archipelasro  and 
otlier  maritime  places:  and  to  enjoy  their  conquests  in  sovereignty:  only  doing  homage  to  the  republic  for  their 
several  principalities. — WAnuvRTOX. 

^  It  i.i  my  humour. — The  Jew  being  asked  a  question  which  the  law  does  not  require  him  to  answer,  stands 
upon  his  right,  and  refuses;  but  afterwards  gratifies  his  own  malignity  by  such  answei-s  as  he  knows  will  nirgra- 
vate  the  pain  of  the  inquirer.  I  will  not  answer,  says  he,  as  to  a  legal  or  serious  question,  but  since  you  want  an 
answer,  will  this  serve  you  ? — ^.Joii.vsox. 

*  Bailed. — White  says,  in  the  early  copies  this  word  was  '-contracted  tlius,  'baiiiM;'  but  a  contraction  of  the 
modern  orthogr.aphy  would  confound  the  verb  with  'ban."'' 

5  Gapinrj  jng.—'By  a  fjapiny  pig.  Shakespeare,  I  believe,  meant  a  pig  preiiared  for  the  table.  So  in  Fletcher's 
Elder  Brother:  •■  And  tliey  stand  (lapiitfi  like  a  roasted  pig."' — Maloxk. 

«  Fretten.—ThH  is  the  old  form  of  fretted. 


30 


THE   JilEROHANT   OF  VENICE. 


Meetest  for  denth:  the  weakest  kind  of  fruit 
Drops  earliest  to  the  ground:  and  so  let  mo. 
You  cannot  better  be  employ'd,  Bassanio, 
Than  to  live  still,  and  write  mine  ci)itaph. 

Re-enter  Attendant,  ivifJi  Xerissa.  dressed  like  a 
LavJijer's  Ckrk. 

Duke.  Came  j-ou  from  Padua,  from  Bellario? 
Ntr.    From   both,   my  lord.     Bellario    greets 
your  Grace.  [Presents  a  Ittter. 

Ba-is.  Why  dost  thou  whet  thj-  knife  so  ear- 
nestly ? 
Shy.  To  cut  ihe  forfeiture  from  that  bankrupt 

there. 
Gra.  Not  on  thy  sole,  but  on  thy  soul,  harsh 
Jew. 
Thou  mak'st  thy  knife  keen;'  but  no  metal  cm, 
No,  not  the  hangman's  ax,  bear  half  the  keen- 
ness 
Of  thy    sharp    envy.     Can    no    prayers    pierce 
tiiee  ? 
Shy.  No,  noue  that  thou  hast  wit  enough  to 

make. 
Gra.  0.  be  thou  damn'd,  inexorable  dog ; 
And  for  thy  life  let  justice  be  accus'd  ! 
Thou  almost  mak'st  me  waver  in  my  faith. 
To  hold  opinion  with  Pythagoras, 
That  souls  of  animals  infuse  themselves 
Into  the  trunks  of  men.     Thy  currish  spirit 
Governed    a    wolf,    who,    hang'd    for    human 

slaughter. 
Even  from  the  gallows  did  his  fell  soul  fleet. 
And  whilst  thou  lay'st  in  thy  unhallow'd  dam, 
Infus'd  itself  in  tlieo  ;   for  thy  desires 
Are  wolfish,  bloody,  starv'd.  and  ravenous. 
Shy.  Till  thou  canst  rail  the  seal  from  off  my 
bond, 
Thou  but  offend'st  thy  lungs  to  speak  so  loud. 
Repair  thy  wit,  good  youth,  or  it  will  fall 
To  endless  ruin. — I  stand  here  for  law. 

Duke.    This   letter   from   Bellario  doth   com- 
mend 
A  young  and  learned  Doctor  to  our  Court. — 
Where  is  he? 

Ner.  Ho  attendeth  here  hard  by, 

To  know  your  answer,  whether  you'll  admit  him. 

Duke.  With  all   my   heart: — some    three  or 

four  of  you 

Go  give  him  courteous  conduct  to  this  place. — 

\_F..xeunt  Gratiaxo,  Salakixo,  and  Salaxio. 

Mean  time,  the  Court  shall  liear  Bellario's  letter. 

[Clerk  reads.]  "  Your  Grace  shill  tmdersland, 
that  at  the  receipt  of  your  letter  I  am  very  sick; 
hut  in  the  instant  that  your  messenger  came,  in 
hving  visitation  ivas  icith  me  a  young  doctor  of 
Home;  his  name  is  Balthazar.  I  acquainted  him 
with  the  cause  in  controversu  between  the  Jew  and 


Antonio,  the  merchant:  vx  turned  o'er  many  hooks 
together :  he  is  furnished  vnth  my  opinhn;  ivhich, 
b:tter'd  ivdh  his  cion  learning,  the  greatness  where- 
of I  cannot  enough  commend,  comef  with  him,  at 
my  importunity,  to  fid  up  yo'ir  Grace\s  request  in 
my  stead.  J  beseech  you,  let  hi')  lack  of  years  he  no 
impediment  to  let  him  lack  a  reverend  estimation, 
for  I  never  knew  so  young  a  body  with  so  old  a 
head.  I  leare  him  ti  your  gracious  acceptance, 
ivlwse  trial  shall  better  publish  his  commendation.^^ 

Duke.  You  hear  the  learn'd  Bellario,  what  he 
writes : 
And  here,  I  take  it,  is  the  Doctor  come. — 

/?e-enii?r  Gratiaxo,  Salarixo,  arecZ  Salaxio,  with 
Portia,  dressed  like  a  Doctor  of  Laws. 

Give  me  your  hand.     Came  you  from  old  Bel- 
lario? 

For   I  did,  my  lord. 

Duke.         You  are  welcome :  take  your  place. 
Are  j^ou  acquainted  with  the  difference 
That  holds  this  present  question  in  the  Court? 

For.  I  am  informed  throughly^  of  the  cause. — 
Which  is   the  merchant  here,   and  which  the 
Jew? 

Duke.  Antonio  and  old  Shvlock,    both  stand 
forth. 

For.  Is  your  name  Shy  lock  ? 

Shy.  Shylock  is  my  name. 

For.  Of  a  strange  nature  is  the  suit  you  fol- 
low; 
Yet  in  such  rule,  that  the  Venetian  law 
Cannot  impugn^  you,  as  you  do  proceed. — 
You  stand  within  his  danger,*  do  you  not? 

[7b  AxTOXio. 

Ant.   Ay,  so  he  says. 

For.  Do  you  confess  the  bond? 

Ant.  I  do. 

For.  Then  must  the  Jew  be  merciful. 

Shy.  On  what  compulsion  must  I  ?  tell  me 
that. 

For.  The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strain'd; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  tlie  place  beneath :  it  is  twice  bless'd ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives,  and  him  that  takes : 
'Tis  mightiest  in  the  mightiest :  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  liis  crown : 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power. 
The  attribute  to  awe  and  m.njesty. 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings , 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway ; 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's, 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Tiierefore,  Jew, 
Tiiough  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this, — 
That  in  the  course  of  justice  none  of  us 


'  Xot  on  thy  nolo,  hut  on,  t'ly  soul,  Iiarsh  Jeic, 
Thou  mah-'st  thy  knife  keen. 
The  conceit  is  that  Shylock"s  soul  w.is  so  h.ird  th.it  it  lial  iriven  :i:i  edse  to  his  knif>'. — ■\V.\r.imr.TON. 

-  Tilroughiy.—'yhvongh  and  thorou^li  arc  diffcTcnt  forms  of  tlic  same  word. — White. 

'  Impugn — oppose. 

*  Within  his  lUinger. — Within  his  danger  was,  in  Shakespeare's  time,  and  long  before,  equivalent  to  indcbtod 
to  him :  the  phrase  has  no  necessary  reference  to  the  |)eril  of  Antonio's  position,  but  may  mean  merely  that  he 
owes  Shylock  monej-,  unless  we  suppose  Shakespeare  to  liavc  had  a  double  meaning. — Collier. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


39 


Should  see  salvation :  we  do  pray  for  mercy, 
And  that  same  prayer  dotli  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  tlius  much, 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  i)lea, 
"Which  if  tliou  follow,  this  strict  Court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  tlie  merchant 

tliere. 
Shy.  My  deeds  upon  my  head.     I  crave  the 

law ; 
The  penalty  and  forfeit  of  ray  bond. 

For.  Is  he  not  able  to  discharjre  the  money? 
Bass.  Yes,   here  I  tender  it  for  him  in   the 

Court; 
Tea,  twice  tlie  sum:  if  that  will  not  suffice, 
I  will  be  bound  to  pay  it  ten  times  o'er, 
On  forfeit  of  my  hands,  my  head,  mj'  heart. 
If  this  will  not  sviffice,  it  must  appear 
That  malice  bears  down  truth:'  and,  I  beseech 

"Wrest  once  the  law  to  your  authority: 
To  do  a  great  right,  do  a  little  wrong. 
And  curb  this  cruel  devil  of  his  will. 

For.  It  must  not  be.     There  is  no  power  in 
Venice 
Can  alter  a  decree  established : 
'Twill  be  recorded  for  a  precedent; 
And  many  an  error,  by  the  same  example, 
"Will  rush  into  the  State.     It  cannot  be. 

Shy.  A  Daniel   come    to  judgment  1    yea,   a 
Daniel! — 
0  wise  young  judge,  how  do  I  honour  thee! 
Fur.  I  pray  you  let  me  look  upon  the  bond. 
Shy.  Here  'tis,  most  reverend  Doctor;    here 

it  is. 
For.  Shylock,  there's  thrice  thy  money  ofler'd 
thee. 


Shy.  An  oath,  an  oath,  I  have  an  oath  in 
Heaven: 
Shall  I  lay  perjury  upon  my  soul? 
No,  not  for  Venice. 

For.  V'hy,  this  bond  is  forfeit, 

And  lawfully  by  tliis  the  Jew  may  claim 
A  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  by  him  cut  off 
Nearest  the  merchant's  heart. — Be  merciful; 
Take  thrice  thy  money:  bid  me  tear  the  bond. 

Shy.  When  it  is  paid  according  to  the  tenour. — 
It  doth  appear,  you  are  a  worthy  judge: 
You  know  the  law;  your  exposition 
Hath  been  most  sound :  I  charge  you  by  the  law, 
Whereof  you  are  a  well-deserving  pillar. 
Proceed  to  judgment.     By  my  soul  I  swear, 
There  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man 
To  alter  me.     I  stay  here  on  my  bond. 

Ant.  Most  he.irtily  I  do  beseech  the  Court 
To  give  the  judgment. 

For.  "Why  then,  thus  it  is : — 

You  must  prepare  your  bosom  for  his  knife  ; — 

Shy.  0  noble  judge!   0  excellent  young  man! 

For.  — For  the  intent  and  purpose  of  the  law. 
Hath  fuU  relation  to  the  penalty 
"Which  here  appeareth  due  upon  the  bond. 

Shy.    'Tis   very  true.       0   wise  and   upright 
judge! 
How  much  mure  elder  art  ll-ou  than  thy  looks! 

For.  Therefore,  lay  bare  your  bosom. 

Shy.  Ay,  liis  breast; 

So  says  the  bond: — doth  it  not,  noble  judge  ? — 
Nearest  his  heart:   those  are  the  very  words. 

For.    It  is  so.     Are   there   balance   here   to 
weigh 
The  flesli. 

Shy.       I  have  them  ready. 


'  Truth — honesty. 


40 


THE    MERCHANT    OF  VENICE. 


For.    Have   by   some   surgeon,    Shjlock,    on 
your  cliargc, 
To  stop  his  wounds,  lest  he  should  bleed  to  death. 

Slcy.  It  is  not  nominated  in  the  bond. 

For.  It  is  not  so  cxpress'd ;  but  what  of  that  ? 
'Twere  good  you  do  so  much  for  charity. 

^liy.  I  cannot  find  it;   'tis  not  in  tlio  bond. 

For.  Come,  merchant,  have  you  anything  to 
say  ? 

Ant.  But  little:    I  am  arm'd,   and  well  pre- 
par'd. — 
Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio:   faro  you  well. 
Grieve  not  that  I  am  fallen  to  this  for  you ; 
For  herein  Fortune  shows  herself  more  kind 
Than  is  her  custom  :  it  is  still  her  use 
To  let  the  wretched  man  out-live  his  wealth, 
To  view  with  hollow  C3'e,  and  wrinkled  brow. 
An  age  of  poverty ,  from  which  lingering  penance 
Of  such  a  misery  dotli  she  cut  me  off. 
Conmicud  me  to  your  honourable  wife : 
Tell  her  the  process  of  Antonio's  end; 
Say,  how  I  lov'd  you,  speak  me  fair  in  death ; 
And,  wl:en  the  tale  is  told,  bid  her  be  judge, 
Whether  Bassanio  had  not  once  a  love. 
Repent  not  you  that  you  shall  lose  your  friend. 
And  he  repents  not  that  he  pays  your  debt; 
For,  if  the  Jew  do  cut  but  deep  enougli, 
I'll  pay  it  instantly  with  all  my  heart. 

Bass.  Antonio,  I  am  married  to  a  wife 
Which  )s  as  dearto  me  as  life  itself; 
But  life  itself,  my  wife,  and  all  the  world. 
Are  not  with  me  esteem'd  above  tliy  life : 
I  would  lose  all.  ay  sacrifice  them  all 
IIo;'e  to  this  devil,  to  deliver  you. 

Gra.  I  have  a  wife,  whom,  I  protest,  I  love : 
I  wovild  she  were  in  Heaven,  so  she  could 
Entreat  some  power  to  change  this  currish  Jew. 

Shy.  [.l.sirfe.]  These  be  the  Christian  husbands! 
I  have  a  daughter: 
"Would  any  of  the  stock  of  Barrabas' 
Had  been  her  husband  rather  than  a  Christian! 
[7b  Portia.]  We  trifle  time;  I  pray  thee  pursue 
sentence. 

For.  A  pound  of  that  same  merchant's  flesh 
is  thine  • 
The  Court  awards  it,  and  the  law  doth  give  it. 

Sliy.  Most  rightlul  judge ! 

For.  And  you  must  cut  this  flesh  from  oft"  his 
breast : 
The  law  allows  it,  and  the  Court  awards  it. 

Shy.  Most  learned  judge  1 — A  sentence  1  come, 
prepare  1 

F<yr.  Tarry  a  little:  there  is  something  else. — 
This  bond  doth  give  thee  here  no  jot  of  blood; 
The  words  expressly  are,  a  poimd  of  flesh: 
Take  then  thy  bond,  take  thou  thy  pound  of 

liesh ; 
But,  in  the  cutting  it,  if  thou  dost  shed 
One  drop  of  Christian  blood,  thy  lands  and  goods 
Are  by  the  laws  of  Venice  confiscate 
Unto  the  State  of  Venice. 

Gra.    0    upright  judge! — Mark,   Jew:  —  0 
learned  judge ! 

Shy.  Is  that  tho'law  ? 

For.  Thyself  shall  see  tlio  Act;. 


For,  as  thou  urgest  justice,  be  assiu'M, 

Thou  shalt  have  justice,  more  than  thou  desirest, 

Gra.    U    learned    judge!  —  Mark,    Jew: — a 
learned  judge ! 

Shy.  I  take  this  offer  then :  pay  the  bond  thrice, 
And  let  the  Christian  go, 

Ba.ss.  Here  is  the  monev. 

For.  Soft! 
The    Jew    shall    have    all    justice; — soft! — no 

haste: — 
He  shall  have  nothing  b;it  t'le  ])cnalty." 

Gra.  0  Jew!    an   upright  judge,    a   learned 
judge  1 

For    Therefore,  prepare  tliee  to  cut  off  the 
flesh. 
Shed  thou  no  blood ;  nor  cut  thou  less,  nor  more. 
But  just  a  pound  of  flesh  :   if  thou  tak'sl  more. 
Or  les.s,  than  a  just  pound, — be  it  so  much 
As  makes  it  light,  or  heavy,  in  the  substance, 
(Jr  the  division  of  the  twentieth  part 
Of  one  poor  scruple. — nay,  if  the  scale  do  turn 
But  in  the  estimation  of  a  hair, 
Thou  diest,  and  all  thy  goods  are  confiscate. 

Gra.  A  second  Daniel,  a  Daniel,  Jev.'  I 
Now,  infidel,  I  have  thee  on  the  liip. 

For.  Why  doth  the  Jew  pause  ?  take  thy  for- 
feiture. 

Shy.  Give  me  my  principal,  and  let  me  go. 

Bass.  I  have  it  ready  for  thee :  here  it  is. 

For.  He  hath  refus'd  it  in  the  open  Court: 
He  shall  have  merely  justice,  and  his  bond. 

Gra.  A  Daniel,  still  say  I;  a  second  Daniel! — 
I  thank  thee,  Jew,  for  teaching  mc  that  word. 

Shy.  Shall  I  not  have  barely  my  prineipr.l? 
j      For.    Thou  shalt  have  nothing  but  the  for- 
feiture. 
To  be  so  taken  at  thy  peril,  Jew. 

Shy.  Why  then  the  Devil  give  him  good  of  it. 
I'll  stay  no  longer  question. 
I       For.  Tarry,  Jew 

'  The  law  hath  yet  another  hold  on  yon. 
It  is  enacted  in  the  laws  of  Venice, 
!  If  it  be  prov'd  again.st  an  alien. 
That  by  direct,  or  indirect  attempts 
He  seek  the  life  of  any  citizen. 
The  party,  'gainst  the  which  he  doth  contrive. 
Shall  seize  one  half  his  goods :  the  other  half 
Comes  to  the  privy  coft'er  of  the  State ; 
And  the  oflender's  life  lies  in  the  mercy 
Of  the  Duke  only,  'gainst  all  other  voice. 
In  which  predicament,  I  say,  thou  stand'st 
For  it  appears  by  manifest  proceeding, 
That,  indirectly,  and  directly  too, 
Thou  hast  contriv'd  against  the  very  life 
Of  the  defendant,  and  thou  hast  incurr'd 
The  danger  formerly  by  me  rehears'd. 
Down,  therefore,  and  beg  mercy  of  the  Duke. 

Gra.  Beg  that  thou  may'st  have  leave  to  hang 
■thyself; 
.\nd  yet,  thy  wealth  being  forfeit  to  the  State, 
Thou  ha.st  not  left  the  value  of  a  cord ; 
Therefore,  tliou  must  be  hang'd  at  the  State's 
cliarge. 

Duka.  That  thou  shalt  see  the  difference  of 
_.  our  spirit. 


'  B<irr<ib(i.i. — '  J5«rral)as,'  .and  not '  Carra6."js,"  seems  to  have  been  the  iironunciation  as  well  as  the  orthograp'.iy 
of  this  name  anions  the  Elizabethan  dramatists. — WiiiTi;. 


THE   MERCHANT   OF  VENICE. 


41 


I  pardon  thee  thy  Hfe  before  thou  tisk  it. 
For  half  thy  wealth,  it  is  Antonio's: 
Tlio  other  half  comes  to  the  general  State, 
AV'hich  humbleness  may  drive  into  a  fine. 

For.  Ay,  for  the  State:  not  for  Antonio.' 

Shy.  Nay,  take  my  life  and  all;  pardon  not 
that : 
You  take  my  house  when  you  do  take  the  prop 
That  doth  sustain  ray  house;  youtake  my  life 
When  you  do  take  the  moans  whereby  I  live. 

For.  What  mercy  can  you  render  him,  An- 
tonio ? 

Gra.  A  halter  gratis ;  notiiing  else ;  for  God's 
sake ! 

Ant.  So  please  my  lord  the  Duke,  and  all  the 
Court,  '         ■        ■ 
To  quit  the  fine''*  for  one  half  of  his  goods, 
I  am  content,  so  he  will  let  me  have 
The  other  half  in  use,  to  render  it. 
Upon  his  death,  nnto  the  gentleman 
That  lately  stole  liis  daughter : 
Two  things  provided  more, — that,  for  this  favour. 
He  presently  become  a  Christian; 
The  otlier,  that  ho  do  record  a  gift. 
Here  in  the  Court,  of  all  he  dies  possess'd, 
Unto  his  son  Lorenzo,  and  his  daughter. 

Buke.  He  sliall  do  this,  or  else  I  do  recant 
The  pardon  that  I  late  pronounced  here. 

For.  Art  thoii   contented,  Jew?    what  dost 
thou  say? 

Shi/.  I  am  content. 

For.  Clerk,  draw  a  deed  of  gift. 

Shy.  I  pray  you,  give  me  leave  to  go  from 
hence. 
I  am  not  well.     Send  the  deed  after  me. 
And  I  will  sign  it. 

Duke.  Get  thee  gone,  but  do  it. 

Gra.  In  christ'nlng  thou  shalt  have  two  god- 
fathers ; 


Had  I  been  .judge  thou  should'st  have  had  ten 

more.' 
To  bring  thee  to  the  gallows,  not  the  font. 

[Exit  SlIYLOCK. 

Duke.  Sir,  I  entreat  you  with   me  home  to 

dinner. 
For.  I  humbly  do  desire  your  Grace  of  par- 
don: 
I  must  away  this  night  toward  Padua, 
And  it  is  meet  I  presently  set  forth. 

Duke.  I  am  sorry  that  your  leisure  serves  you 
not. 
Antonio,  gratify  this  gentleman, 
Por,  in  my  mind,  you  are  mucli  bound  to  him. 
[Exeunt  DuKE,  Magnificoes,  and  Train. 
Portia  and  -Nerissa  retire  vp  the 
sta-je  and  throw  off  their  disguises. 
Bass    [Goinj  vp  the  stage  with  Antonio  and 

friendi.]  Most  worthy  gentleman 

For.  You  are  all  amaz'd : 

Here  is  a  letter,  read  it  at  your  leisure; 
It  comes  from  Padua,  from  Bellario : 
There  you  shall  find,  that  Portia  was  the  Doctor; 
Nerissa  there,  her  cleric.     Antonio  ; 
I  have  better  news  in  store  for  you, 
Than  you  expect:  unseal  this  letter  soon  ; 
There  you  shall  fiud,  three  of  your  argosies 
Are  richly  come  to  harbour  suddenly. 
Y''ou  shall  not  know  by  what  s:range  accident 
I  chanced  on  this  letter. 

.Int.  I  am  dumb. 

Bass.  Were  you  the  Doctor,  and  I  knew  vou 

not? 
Gra.  Were  you  the  clerk — 
For.  Y'ou  are  not  satisfied 

Of  these  events  at  full.     Let  us  go  in ; 
And  charge  us  there  upon  inter'gatories, 
And  we  will  answer  all  things  faithfully. 

[Exeunt. 


'  Ai/,for  the  State ;  not  for  Antonio. — That  is,  the  State's  moiety  iniij-  lie  cDinmutcd  to  a  line,  but  not  An- 
tonio's.— M.\I.()>E.      * 

^  To  quit  the.  fine.  &c. — Antonio  does  not  mean  tliat  lie  is  content  to  release  Shylock  from  tlie  decree  of  the 
Stiite  with  regard  to  one-half  of  his  goods,— whieh  would  be  an  inii>ertinence  not  alcin  to  Antonio's  character, — but 
to  leave  (quit)  the  tine  to  tlie  mercy  of  the  State,  while  lie  on  his  si<le  shows  mercy  by  not  claitning  the  fee  simple 
of  tile  other  half,  but  only  its  use,— that  is,  the  product  derivable  from  it,— till  the  Jew's  death,  rendering  it  then  to 
his  son-in-law  and  heir,  Lorenzo. 

3  Ten  more. — Jurymen  were  jestingly  called  godfather.s.  So  In  "  The  Devil  is  an  As.s,"  by  IJeii  Jonson:  "  I 
will  leave  you  to  your  godfathers  iu  law.     Let  twelve  men  work." 


ANALYSIS  OF  THE   PLAY.  BY  GERVINUS. 


In  the  centre  of  the  actors  in  the  play,  in  a  rather  passive  position,  stands 
Antonio,  the  princely  merchant,  of  enviable  inimense  possessions,  a  Timon,  a  Shy- 
lock,  in  liches,  but  with  a  noble  nature  elevated  far  above  ti)e  effects,  which  wealth 
produced  in  these  men.  Placed  between  the  generous  and  the  nnser,  between  the 
spendthrift  and  the  usurer,  between  Bassanio  and  ShyJock,  between  friend  and  foe, 
lie  is  not  even  remotely  tempted  by  the  vices,  into  which  these  have  fallen ;  there  is 
not  the  slightest  trace  to  be  discovered  in  him  of  that  care  for  his  wealth,  which 
Salanio  and  Salarino  impute  to  him,  who  in  its  possession  would  be  its  slaves.  But 
his  great  riches  have  inflicted  another  evil  upon  him,  the  malady  of  the  rich,  who 
have  been  agitated  and  tried  by  nothing,  and  have  never  experienced  the  pressure  of 
the  world.  lie  has  the  spleen,  he  is  melancholy;  a  sadness  has  seized  him,  the 
sDurce  of  which  no  one  knows;  he  has  a  presentiment  of  some  danger,  such  as 
Shakespeare  always  iniparts  to  all  sensitive,  susceptible  natures.  In  this  spleen,  like 
all  hypochondriacs,  he  takes  delight  in  cheerful  society;  he  is  surrounded  by  a  num- 
ber of  parasites  and  flatterers,  among  whom  is  one  more  noble  character,  Bassanio, 
with  whom  alone  a  deeper  impulse  of  friendship  connects  him.  He  is  affable,  mild, 
generous  to  all,  without  knowing  their  tricks,  without  sharing  their  mirth  ;  the 
loquacions  versatility,  the  humor  of  a  Gratiano  is  nothing  to  him ;  his  pleasure  in 
their  intercourse  is  passive,  according  to  his  universal  apathy.  *  *  *  *  But  he  is 
not,  therefore,  to  appear  quite  feelinglcss.  For  in  one  point  he  shows  that  he  shared 
gall,  flesh,  and  blood  with  others.  AVlien  brought  into  contact  with  the  usurer,  the 
Jew  Shylock,  we  see  him  in  an  agitation,  which  partly  flows  from  moral  and  business 
principles,  partly  from  intolerance,  and  from  national  religious  aversion.  This  point 
of  honur  in  the  merchant  against  the  money-changer  and  usurer,  urges  liim  to  those 
glaring  outbui-sts  of  hatred,  when  he  rates  Shylock  in  the  Rialto  about  his  usances, 
calls  hiin  a  dog,  foots  liim,  and  spits  upon  his  beard.  For  this  he  receives  a  lesson 
for  life  in  his  lawsuit  with  the  Jew,  which  with  his  apathetic  negligence  he  allows  to 
run  ahead  of  him.  The  danger  of  life  seizes  him,  and  the  apparently  insensible  man 
is  suddenly  drawn  closer  to  us ;    he  is  suffering,  so  that  high  and  low  intercede  for 


AXALYSIS   OF   THE   PLAY.  43 

him;  lie  hinisclf  petitions  Sli\lock;  bis  situation  weakens  liiin  ;  the  experience  is 
not  lost  for  him ;  it  is  a  crisis,  it  is  the  creation  of  a  new  life  for  him ;  finally,  when 
he  is  lord  and  master  over  Shylock,  he  rakes  up  no  more  his  old  hatred  against  hiin, 
and  in  Bassanio's  happiness  and  tried  friendship  there  lies  henceforth  for  tlie  man 
roused  from  his  apatliy,  the  source  of  renovated  and  ennobled  existence. 

Unacquainted  with  this  friend  of  Bassanio's,  there  lives  at  Belmont  his  beloved 
Portia,  the  contrast  to  Antonio,  upon  whom  Shakespeare  has  not  hesitated  to  heap 
all  the  active  qualities,  of  which  l\c  has  deprived  Antonio ;  for  in  the  womanly  being, 
kept  modestly  in  the  background,  these  qualities  will  not  appear  so  overwhelmingly 
prominent,  as  we  felt  that,  united  in  the  man,  they  would  have  raised  him  too  far 
above  the  other  characters  of  tlic  piece.  Nevertheless  Portia  is  the  most  important 
figure  in  our  drama,  and  she  forms  even  its  true  central  point,  as  for  her  sake,  with- 
out her  fault  or  knowledge,  the  knot  is  entangled,  and  through  her  and  in  her  con- 
scious effort  it  is  also  loosened.  She  is  just  as  royally  rich  as  Antonio,  and  as  he  is 
encompassed  with  parasites,  so  is  slie  by  suitors  from  all  lands.  She  too,  like 
Antonio,  and  more  than  he,  is  wholly  free  from  every  disturbing  influence  of  her  pos- 
sessions upon  her  inner  being.  She  cawies  out  her  father's  will,  in  order  to  secure 
herself  from  a  husband,  who  might  purchase  her  beauty  by  the  weight.  AVithout 
this  will,  she  was  of  herself  of  the  same  mind;  wooed  by  princely  suitors,  she  loves 
Bassanio,  whom  she  knew  to  be  utterly  poor.  She  too,  like  Antonio,  is  melancholy, 
but  not  from  spleen,  not  from  apathy,  not  without  cause,  not  from  that  ennui  of 
riches,  but  just  from  passion,  from  her  love  for  Bassanio,  from  care  for  the  doubtful 
issue  of  that  choice,  which  threatens  to  betray  her  love  to  chance.  A  completely 
superior  nature,  she  stands  above  Antonio  and  Bassanio,  as  Helena  above  Bertram, 
more  than  Rosaline  above  Biron  and  Juliet  above  Romeo :  it  seems  that  Shakespeare 
at  that  time  created  and  endowed  his  female  characters  in  the  conviction,  that  the 
woman  was  fashioned  out  of  better  material  than  the  man.  On  account  of  the 
purity  of  her  nature,  she  is  compared  to  the  image  of  a  saint,  on  account  of  the 
strength  of  her  will  to  Brutus's  I'ortia;  Jessica  speaks  of  her  as  without  her  fellow 
in  the  world,  giving  to  her  husband  the  joys  of  heaven  upon  earth.  The  most 
beautifnl  and  the  most  contradictory  qualities,  manly  determination  and  Avomanly 
tenderness,  are  blended  together  in  her.  *****  gj^^  jg  superior  to  all  circum- 
stances, that  is  her  highest  praise  ;  she  would  have  accommodated  herself  to  any 
husband,  for  this  reason  her  father  might  have  felt  himself  justified  in  prescribing 
the  lottery;  he  could  do  so  with  the  most  implicit  confidence;  she  knows  the 
contents  of  the  caskets,  but  she  betrays  it  not.  Once  she  has  sent  from  her  eyes 
speechless  messages  to  Bassanio,  and  now  she  would  gladly  entertain  him  some 
months  before  he  chooses,  that  she  may  at  least  secure  a  short  possession  ;  but  no 
liint  from  her  facilitates  his  election.  And  yet  she  has  to  struggle  with  the  warm 
feeling,  which  longs  to  transgress  the  will;  it  is  a  temptation  to  her,  but  she  resists 
it  with  honor  and  resolution.  Only,  quick  in  judgment,  skilled  in  the  knowledge 
of  men,  and  firm  in  her  treatment,  she  knows  how  to  frighten  away  the  utterly  worth- 


44  ANALYSIS   OF   THE   PLAY. 

less  lovers  by  her  behavior;  so  superior  is  she  in  ;ill  tliis,  that  her  nibseqnent 
appearance  as  judge  is  perfectly  conceivable.  Famous  actresses,  such  as  Mrs.  Clivc 
in  Garrick's  time,  have  used  this  judg'mcnt-scenc  as  a  burlesque  to  laugh  at,  a  part 
in  which  the  highest  pathos  is  at  work,  and  an  exalted  character  pursues  the  most 
pure  and  sacred  object. 

Between  both,  Portia  and  Antonio,  stands  Bassanio,  the  friend  of  the  one,  the 
lover  of  the  other,  utterly  poor  between  the  two  boundlessly  rich,  ruined  in  his  cir- 
cumstances, inconsiderate,  extravagant  at  the  expense  of  his  friend.  He  seems  quite 
to  belong  to  the  parasitical  class  of  Antonio's  friends.  In  disposition  he  is  more 
inclined  to  the  merry  Gratiano  than  to  Antonio's  severe  gravity ;  he  appears  on  the 
stage  with  the  question — "When  shall  we  laugh?"  and  he  joins  with  his  frivolous 
companion  in  all  cheerful  and  careless  foUv.  This  time  he  borrows  once  more  three 
thousand  ducats,  to  make  a  strange  Argonautic  expedition  to  the  Golden  Fleece, 
staking  them  on  a  blind  adventure,  the  doubtful  wooing  of  a  rich  heiress.  Ilis 
friend  breaks  his  habit  of  never  borrowing  on  credit,  he  enters  into  an  agreement 
with  the  Jew  upon  the  bloody  condition,  and  the  adventurer  accepts  the  loan  with 
the  sacrifice.  And  before  he  sets  forth,  even  on  the  same  day  and  evening,  he  pur- 
chases fine  livery  for  his  servants  with  this  money,  and  gives  a  merry  feast  as  a  fare- 
well, during  which  the  daughter  of  the  invited  Jew  is  to  be  carried  ofi'by  one  of  the 
free-thinking  fellows.  Is  not  the  Avhole,  as  if  he  were  only  the  seeming  friend  of 
this  rich  man,  that  he  might  borrow  his  money,  and  only  the  seeming  lover  of  this 
rich  lady,  that  he  might  pay  his  debts  with  her  money  ? 

But  this  quiet  Antonio  seemed  to  know  the  man  of  had  appearance  to  be  of 
better  nature.  He  knew  him  indeed  as  somewhat  too  extravagant  but  not  incurably 
so,  as  one  who  Avas  ready  and  able  even  to  restrict  himself.  He  knew  him  as  one 
who  stood  "  within  the  eye  of  honor,"  and  he  lent  to  him,  without  a  doubt  of  his 
integrity.  His  confidence  was  unlimited,  and  he  blames  him  rather  that  he  should 
"make  question  of  his  uttermost,"  than  if  ho  had  made  waste  of  all  he  has.  In  his 
melancholy,  it  is  this  man  alone  who  chains  him  to  the  world ;  their  friendship 
needs  no  brilliant  words,  it  is  unfeignedly  genuine.  His  eyes,  full  of  tears  at  part- 
ing, tell  Bassanio,  what  he  is  worth  to  Antonio ;  it  is  just  the  acceptance  of  the 
loan  which  satisfies  Antonio's  confidence.  *  *  *  * 

Bassanio's  choice  is  crowned  by  success;  or  more  justly,  his  wise  consideration 
of  the  father's  object  and  of  the  mysterious  problem,  meets  Avith  its  deserved  reward. 
But  his  beautiful  doctrine  of  show  is  to  be  tested  innnediately,  whether  it  be  really 
deed  and  truth.  His  adventurous  expedition  has  succeeded  through  his  friend's 
assistance  and  loan.  But  at  the  same  moment,  in  which  he  is  at  the  climax  of  his 
happiness,  his  friend  is  at  the  climax  of  misfortune  and  in  the  utmost  danger  ot  his 
life,  and  this  from  the  very  assistance  and  loan,  which  have  helped  Bassanio  to  his 
success.  In  the  very  prime  of  his  Avcdding  happiness  the  horror  of  the  intelligence 
concerning  Antonio  occurs.  Now  the  genuineness  of  the  friend  shows  itself.  The 
intelligence  disturbs  his  whole  nature.     He  goes  on  his  wedding-day — Portia  herself 


ANALYSIS   OF  THE   PLAY.  45 

permits  not,  that  tbey  sliould  be  married  first, — to  save  liis  friend,  to  pay  thrice  the 
money  borrowed,  in  the  liopc  of  being  able  to  turn  aside  the  law  in  this  case  of 
necessity.  But  Portia  proves  even  here  lier  superior  nature.  She  sees  more  keenly, 
what  an  inevitable  snare  tlie  inhuman  Jew  has  dug  for  Antonio:  she  adopts  the 
surest  idea,  of  saving  him  by  i-ight  and  law  itself;  she  had  at  the  same  time  a  plan 
for  testing  the  man  of  her  love.  *****  gjjg  saves  her  friend  from 
despair,  and  his  friend  from  death,  at  the  same  moment  that  amid  their  torments 
she  is  observing  their  value.  Antonio  has  in  this  catastrophe  to  atone  for  all  that 
he  had  sinned  against  Shylock  through  sternness,  Bassanio  for  all  that  of  which  he 
was  guilty  through  frivolity,  extravagance,  and  participation  in  the  offences  against 
the  Jew  :  the  best  part  of  both  is  exhibited  through  their  sufferings  in  their  love 
for  each  other,  and  Antonio's  words,  the  seal  of  this  friendship,  must  have  pene- 
trated deeply  into  Portia's  heart.  But  with  equally  great  agitation  she  hears  the 
words  of  Bassanio,  that  he  would  sacrifice  his  wife,  his  latest  happiness,  to  avert  the 
misfortune  which  he  had  caused.  This  disregard  of  her  must  enchant  her:  this  was 
standing  the  fiery  test.  Whilst  she  turns  the  words  into  a  jest,  she  lias  the  deepest 
emotion  to  overcome :  with  those  words,  the  sin  is  forgiven  of  which  Bassanio  was 
guilty.  By  his  readiness  for  this  sacrifice  he  first  deserves  the  friend,  whom  he  had 
brought  near  to  death  through  the  wooing  of  this  wife  and  the  means  of  pressing 
his  suit,  which  Antonio  had  given  him ;  and  by  this  also  he  first  deserves  his  wife, 
who  could  not  be  called  happily  won  by  a  fortunate  chance,  which  was  at  once  the 
evil  destiny  of  his  friend.  ****** 

Shylock  is  the  contrast,  which  we  hardly  need  explain,  although  indeed  in  this 
age  of  degeneration  of  art  and  morals,  lowness  and  madness  could  go  so  far  as  to 
make  a  martyr  on  the  stage  of  this  outcast  of  humanity.  The  poet  has  certainly 
given  to  this  character,  in  order  that  he  may  not  sink  quite  below  our  interest,  a 
perception  of  his  paria-condition,  and  has  imputed  his  outburst  of  hatred  against 
Christians  and  aristocrats,  partly  to  genuine  grounds  of  annoyance.  Moreover,  he 
has  not  delineated  the  usurer  from  the  hatred  of  the  Christians  of  that  time  against  all 
that  was  Jewish,  else  he  would  not  have  imparted  to  Jessica  her  lovely  character. 
But  of  the  emancipation  of  the  Jew  he  knew  indeed  nothing,  and  least  of  all  the 
emancipation  of  this  Jew,  whom  Burbadge  in  Shakespeare's  time  acted  in  a  char- 
acter frightful  also  in  exterior,  with  long  nose  and  red  hair,  and  whose  inward 
deformity,  whose  hardened  nature,  is  far  less  determined  by  religious  bigotiy,  than 
by  the  most  terrible  of  all  fanaticism,  that  of  avarice  and  usury.  He  hates  indeed 
the  Christians  as  Christians,  and  therefore  Antonio  who  has  mistreated  him ;  but  he 
hates  him  far  more,  because  by  disinterestedness,  by  what  he  calls  "  low  simplicity," 
he  destroys  his  business,  because  he  lends  out  money  gratis,  brings  down  the  rate 
of  usance,  and  has  lost  him  half  a  million.  Riches  have  made  him  the  greatest  con- 
trast to  that  which  they  have  rendered  Antonio,  who  throughout  appears  indifferent, 
incautious,  careless,  and  generous.  Shylock  on  the  other  hand  is  meanly  careful, 
cautiously  circumspect,  systematically  quiet,  ever  inwardly  shufflingly  occupied,  like 


46  ANALYSTS   OF  THE   PLAY. 

the  genuine  son  of  his  race,  disdaining  not  the  most  contemptible  means,  nor  tlie 
most  contemptible  object,  speculating  in  the  gaining  of  a  penny,  looking  so  far  into 
the  future  and  into  small  results,  that  he  sends  the  greedy  Launcelot  into  Bassanio's 
service,  and  against  his  principle  he  eats  at  night  at  Bassanio's  house,  only  for  the 
sake  of  feeding  upon  the  prodigal  Christian.  This  trait  is  given  to  him  by  the  poet 
in  a  truly  masterly  manner,  in  order  subsequently  to  explain  the  barbarous  condition, 
on  which  he  lends  Antonio  that  fatal  sum.  Shakespeare  after  his  habit  has  done  the 
utmost  to  give  probability  to  this  most  improbable  degree  of  cruelty,  which,  accord- 
ing to  Bacon's  words,  appears  in  itself  to  every  good  mind,  a  fabulous  tragic  fiction. 
Antonio  has  mistreated  him ;  at  the  moment  of  the  loan  he  was  like  to  mistreat  liim 
agaiu ;  he  challenges  him  to  lend  it  as  to  an  enemy ;  he  almost  suggests  to  him  the 
idea,  which  the  Jew  places,  as  if  jestingly,  as  a  condition  of  the  loan ;  and  he,  the 
man  railed  at  for  usury,  will  now  generously  grant  it  without  interest,  to  the  man 
who  never  borrowed  upon  advantage.  The  same  crafty  speculation  and  prospect 
which,  at  all  events,  is  attended  with  one  advantage,  underlies  this  idea:  in  one  case 
the  show  of  disinterestedness,  in  the  other  the  opportunity  for  a  fearful  revenge. 
Had  the  Jew  really  only  partially  trifled  with  the  idea  of  such  a  revenge,  the  poet 
does  every  thing  to  make  a  jest  fearfully  earnest.  Money  had  effaced  every  thing 
human  from  the  heart  of  this  man,  he  knows  nothing  of  religion  and  moral  law,  but 
when  he  quotes  the  Bible  in  justification  of  his  usury ;  he  knows  of  no  mercy,  but  to 
which  he  can  be  compelled;  nothing  of  justice  and  mercy  dwells  in  liim,  nothing  of 
the  affection  of  kindred.  His  daughter  is  carried  away  from  him  ;  he  is  furious,  not 
because  he  is  robbed  of  her,  but  l)ecause  she  has  robbed  him  in  her  flight ;  he  would 
see  his  daughter  dead  at  his  feet,  provided  that  the  jewels  and  gems  were  in  her 
ears ;  he  would  see  her  hearsed  before  him,  provided  the  ducats  were  in  her  coffin. 
He  regrets  the  money  employed  in  her  pursuit ;  when  he  hears  of  her  extravagance, 
the  irretrievable  loss  of  his  ducats  occasions  fresh  rage.  In  this  condition  he  pants 
for  revenge  against  Antonio,  even  before  there  is  any  prospect  of  it,  against  the  man, 
who  by  long  mortifications  had  stirred  up  rage  and  hatred  in  the  bosom  of  the  Jew, 
and  with  whose  removal  his  usury  would  be  without  an  adversary.  Obduracy  and 
callousness  continue  to  progress  in  him,  until  at  the  pitch  of  liis  wickedness  he 
falls  into  the  pit  he  had  dug,  and  then,  according  to  the  notions  of  the  age,  learns 
from  the  actions  of  Antonio  and  of  the  Duke,  how  mercy  in  a  Christian  spirit 
produces  other  actions,  than  the  unmerciful  god  of  the  world,  who  imposed  upon 
him  its  laws  alone.  This  awful  picture  of  the  effects  of  a  thirst  for  possession, 
however  strongly  it  is  exhibited,  will  appear  as  no  caricature  to  him,  who  has 
ever  stumbled  upon  similar  evidences  in  the  actual  world,  in  the  histories  of 
£;amblers  and  misers. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILf 


D  000  978  288   9 


UC  SOUTHtKN  HtLiiui^HL 


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